| Grandfather burned up to ash
|
| And returned to the earth.
|
| Which he spawned
|
| This nefarious prank
|
| That’s controlled by the length
|
| Of his arms.
|
| And the kindred is gathered
|
| By coffin and chaplain,
|
| On his behalf.
|
| And a discreet tender man
|
| Clears his throat,
|
| Waves his hand,
|
| Following a laugh.
|
| And the band plays on.
|
| Like a fat baby’s birth,
|
| Like a cry and a curse
|
| At the breathing space,
|
| While the mother rejoices
|
| Ten fingers, ten toes
|
| And a handsome face.
|
| And the family is gasping.
|
| Each one can’t help asking,
|
| «How was it, my dear?»
|
| Like a scorn for the one
|
| That was torn and deformed
|
| For the next cruel years.
|
| And the band plays on.
|
| So I’ll cut you all open.
|
| I’ll see what’s inside you
|
| Or what’s missing.
|
| While this virgin,
|
| Your daughter,
|
| Skirt down in the altar-
|
| She don’t owe you a God damn thing,
|
| 'Cause she’s gorgeous.
|
| I’ll take her to
|
| The house by the lake,
|
| Where I’ll write her a song.
|
| While you fat pigs with call-girls:
|
| They dance in the ballrooms
|
| Shaking their wallets at God.
|
| And the notes fill the pages
|
| As I scramble to paste up
|
| My bleeding heart.
|
| And this sick song moves on,
|
| If you’re lucky lifelong,
|
| You can sing a part.
|
| As it falls apart. |