Bless you, you bastard pulling your gun.
I feel weak I feel oh no here we go again.
There are rivers I’ve paid to get across.
Take me back into your dreams.
At lunch the belly dancers talk about big hair.
Their boyfriends write screenplays
For audiences in the millions.
Many around me have already perished.
Their bones break like crackling firewood.
Others live in high rises with broken elevators.
Why do you treat me like a bad-ass Buddha?
Some maintain the beauty around them.
Some were the right people at the wrong place.
Others the right people in the wrong time.
Soldiers are dying while some drink champagne.
Sooner or later this darkness got to lift.
Some of them moved to Casablanca.
Some get teeth marks in their knuckles.
Some of them are all wound up
As if today was the end of the world.
Some of them check in at the Plaza.
Some of them pour water down the mail shoot.
None of them carry the tune like Janis.
Maybe that’s not you in the physical body.
Some of them have paper routes.
Some are out on tour.
Some of them every lover would believe.
Some are the objects of devotion.
Some were released, some beamed up the garbage.
Everyone got you this present and everyone signed it.
I don’t know what you did with your life.
Some, like clumsy angels, fall from the sky.
Spoken word version from Trashtalking Country.
Copyright © 2005 by Jim Cohn.