| Lightning slaying shadows
|
| In the tremors of the night
|
| While he creeps among the alleys
|
| Bringing fear before the fright
|
| She sleeps in tattered trousers
|
| In the ballroom’s decadence
|
| Moaning gently of her dreaming
|
| By escorted precedence
|
| Antiquated babblings
|
| From a constant stream of thought
|
| Sensitively wringing out
|
| The rags that he has caught
|
| Patting yet her bulging belly
|
| She so slowly cries a smile
|
| In anticipated suffering
|
| Of her slowly growing child
|
| He is speeding in a vacuum
|
| Going nowhere, but, of course
|
| He might believe in discipline
|
| Of a bloody kind of sort
|
| Naturally a state of race
|
| A never changing spate of hate
|
| While everything in some weird way
|
| Does manage to relate
|
| To her it doesn’t matter more
|
| Its chasms have been leapt
|
| And she leans upon the skepticism
|
| Of her chosen fate
|
| Stand tall, you spittle-smattered son of man
|
| Stand up, you hear them say
|
| To slap you down and kick your teeth
|
| And smile across the bay
|
| Irrelevant eloquent pleading
|
| Wasn’t what she did this year
|
| She passed it by and told a lie
|
| And shed a crystal tear
|
| For him to see, from valley’s edge
|
| From plateaus in the sand
|
| And yet he has beshit himself
|
| For being just a man
|
| A bragging crowing sort of twit
|
| A cast-off shade of pink
|
| Who’s brought himself and all the rest
|
| Unto the very brink
|
| Yet that magic urge
|
| Continues on and plays continuum
|
| A song of pleasure and of pain
|
| Until that will be done |