A FREAKISH SON OF MATTER
The lines I can't remember are the lines I
now forget. I'm forged and broken and confused.
nothing makes any sense, and I don't understand
a word. This was Wednesday, on a bicycle. Tomorrow
is the next day's mistress with the jolly hat to go.
I can't return to a flogging, but the ship I should
be on, it's gone already and already listing. Sunk
by another noon, under a different moon. (OK, let's
go cheap and say 'and none too soon'). Here's my
Florence Nightingale curtain, out just in time for
you - I took everything down from the windows
just to enjoy the view. I've heard this, once :
'They call me no-show Jones. I'm seldom
never on the stage, singin' my songs. My
whereabouts are unknown.' And now,
and now - I want to have a fancy
dinner with a saint, though I really
eat nothing at all. A few grains of
rice, in a bowl of scented water.
You want I should make the call?
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