| It starts with a call
|
| A call from his mother
|
| Sophia says, «Come quick, MacGyver’s been hurt
|
| He was just on his way home from saving the world again
|
| He got jumped by some kids
|
| He went down now he’s dying»
|
| So I threw on my coat and ran out the door
|
| Sped through the night to the old hospital
|
| Where the doctors said to wait so I camped in the ward
|
| Watching the clock as it hemorrhages time so slow
|
| And I’ve lingered here so long
|
| The air in here so cold
|
| The shallow breath so quiet
|
| The shibboleth of MacGyver laid bare
|
| Flat on a table
|
| Blackened by bruises he couldn’t explain
|
| And there was nothing he could build to save himself
|
| Out of biros and blue-tack
|
| They opened up his cavities in the operating theatre
|
| But the doctors couldn’t find a heart
|
| His lymph glands running motor oil
|
| His calloused fingers lie inert
|
| Their intricate ability punctured
|
| By the god-shaped hole in adolescent consciousness
|
| He couldn’t build a bomb to mend the splinters of his broken heart
|
| His homemade radar couldn’t find a way to make his weapons art
|
| MacGyver bleeds out all of his rationalism
|
| Isaac Newton, your lever is not long enough
|
| The Scottish enlightenment a sinking ship
|
| So I left the hospital with the bleep of life support machines a memory |