Trying to write a three-piece song but wearing a
three-piece suit. Where do I go with this one?
Mystery novels can't be made into songs, or
least-ways none that I can see. Everybody
knows already what's behind the door, and,
since the butler did it, they know what he
used and what he did it for. And it's all so
apparently useless. Nobody reads anymore.
Around that Newark canyon there's a
graveyard three-hundred years old. I can
still read the names on most of the tombs :
those that aren't scratched off are still
talking about themselves. The most simple
of dates, the birth and the death, and then
this Champean MacPherson guy who saved
a stage from falling off a cliff. Well that's
what it says: 'A good man who went
out of his way for others.'
Today, I suppose, that just means mowing
your neighbor's lawn. Maybe. For nothing.
I have this slingshot I always carry around
on my belt. Useful here, for picking off birds
from the tombstones they've sullied. Nature
always bothers me - even among the dead.