'No, I never knew her, and what did
you you say her name was, Anna Purna?
No, no one I knew.' It was getting so very
late and why should I even bother? Better
just to walk on home, 6 blocks over, and
sit back and sulk once more. The Indian
lights are always on anyway. This bread
is old and stale, and there's nobody here
anymore, except stale breath and stale air
too. A real triumvirate of desolation.
I wanted to kill the singer; he'd left already,
but I hate the smug bastards they are. All
that fake posing and propositional stuff.
'I'm white, and I'm blue, and I'm also a Jew,
yeah, yeah, pretend I'm black guy for me
and for you.' Well, that's all for the sake of
a rhyme, but so what - suburban kids, always,
and their southern-black-salve-blues rants.
Idiots have tokens for the subways. Wise guys
jump the turnstiles. These guitar guys do neither.
They whine until a ride arrives. And then they're
off, probably back to some stupid little job tomorrow,
or to Law School for yet another end-of-term exam.
And I've heard it all and I've heard it a million times too.
'Oh, mama, I'm so blue, what am I a'gonna' do, ooh, ooh?'