There's no denying, I would be lying, if I said I wasn't in love
It just goes to show that you never know what happens when push comes to shove.
There's no true answer, hate spreads like cancer; I won't say that I think it's right
But nothing will last and some things end fast and love dies like switching a light.
There's no denying, I wasn't trying, I don't think that I'd call it fair
That awful sunrise you tore out my eyes — you taught me what it meant to care.
Thought you'd drained me dry, I couldn't say why; saw myself as only a void
I felt them that dawn, and then they were gone, love's remnants you'd finally destroyed.
There's no denying, spent some time crying, once I learned it truly was dead
I know you wept too, I felt it anew: within me compassion had fled.
Yes I could have tried before our love died with some hope of finding a cure
It's almost a crime, and yet by that time our motives were no longer pure.
There's no denying, I would be lying, if I said I wasn't to blame
I am still haunted by what you wanted, but my life is only a game.
I was part wild, part little child; my love was so grounded in trust
You drifted away, then finally one day you crumbled my pride into dust.
There's no denying, I wasn't trying, my apathy guided me through
My myriad fears throughout all our years had taken a back seat to you.
So what a surprise fell from those blue skies, put to death my ignorant dream —
Like some insane hoax, the cruelest of jokes, and rooted in low self-esteem.
There's no denying and no defying your base urges and your senses
I gave you a ring, asked only one thing, and lowered all my defenses.
Like some lovesick dog, I walked in a fog; in your heart no light of love shone.
Now hurt and afraid, I've gravely repaid the wages of being alone.
There's no denying, I wasn't spying, I was in no way suspicious
I couldn't conceive, in no way believe you could ever be that vicious.
Perhaps in your heart, that cold twisted part, those urges were too long denied
There's nothing to say, no point anyway — I feel cold and empty inside.
There's no denying, we are all dying, we move toward our graves with each breath
We go with a debt of pain and regret to the court that we know as death.
I gave you your space, let you set the pace; me alone in our double bed
You wanted it all, the rise and the fall; now your hands are maculate red.
There's no denying, I think of dying, more than I consider my life
Taunted and hunted, every part stunted, I'm no man to take on a wife.
At least I was torn before I was born; a bad jar, but quite a fine start —
Twisted and scarred and calloused and hardened for further assaults on my heart.
Said Mr. Wigeon to Mr. Pigeon,"Why do you live in town?There's people there, and sir, the air —The air, my friend, is brown!"Said Mr. Pigeon to Mr. Wigeon,"From people's crumbs I grow fat;The climate of your marsh I find too harsh —I live in town, and that's that!"
Do I set your heart ablaze?
Does guilt burn you like fire?
Am I talking to the wall?
Am I preaching to the choir?
I can touch the sky but I fly too low
What's the answer to the koan?
I don't know
And when they finally find me
Lying cold in a gutter
A lifetime of regret from now
Will you say "He reminds me
Of someone or another,
And what was his name, anyhow?"
Or will one genuine tear
Gracefully fall from your eye
As you think of what we were then
And will you still be sincere
Or is it all just a lie
When you wish for what might have been?
I can touch the sky but I fly too low
What's the answer to the koan?
I don't know
If you want to kill me, that's quite all right by me
Just tell me where you'll be gone
I don't know about you, but I know it's true
I'd rise up again come the dawn
If you want to play boss, fine, that's your loss
If you hang me out to dry
If you don't want my moss, I'll find you a cheap cross
And you can leave me only the sky
But I want you to know, it matters not where you go
I'll rise up and see you again
To bring you the sun, the moon and promises of fun
And ignore your army of dead men
You tell me to get out of town, and tear off the crown
Over which I never had a claim
Treat me like a waxen voodoo doll full of tacks, and
I'll keep you just the same
Sit down my friends, come hear this true story
It's interesting, but it's also gory
One fine day in eighteen seventy-four
Alferd Packer, who just loved to explore
With five friends, he began a three-month tour
'Cross the Rockies, but don't ask me what for
Six men walked for seventy-five miles
But the voyage just was not all smiles
For you see, when the group finally came back
Five of the men the party now did lack
At the end of those cold seventy-five
Alferd Packer alone finished alive
When asked why, he didn't know what to say
His memory seemed to change day to day
But at last he settled on one version
Of what happened on that long excursion
The police decided this one was true
And it's this one that I'll now tell to you
One hiker, it seemed, whose name had been Bell
Just went insane, but why no one could tell
Packer claimed that Bell had killed all the rest
Of the hikers, and that packer was next
So ole Packer, he said, "I tried my best
To stop him; but I fought back with such zest
Shannon Bell died, but it's just common sense
When I say, I killed him in self-defense"
Then Alferd, he was left with five dead men
What could he do? It was getting cold then
So Alferd, to warm up that freezing hell
Took the body and he devoured Bell
For dessert he then ate his other four
Dead companions; but hey — what are friends for?
When finished, he caused a sensation
By arriving at the tour's destination
When Alferd had ended his gruesome tale
The local cops threw him quickly in jail
Where he served over seventeen long years
But if his fate fills your eyes now with tears
I'll reveal here, he was released alive
Died a free man, the age of sixty-five
Will we meet again through the blood-rimmed eyes of ghosts
Or in some stranger’s stomach
Or will we lay side by side, paralyzed
By the biting burn of freezing metal
On our respective slabs
Where bursts of breath no longer cloud the chilled air between us?
Will you be the nails that puncture me
And will I be your cross as well?
Or will I be the rock that you push uphill
Until I mischievously slip from your exhausted fingers
And roll to the safety of the valley bellow
Cradled like a hug between looming hills?
Lying cold and prone in corpescent repose
Stripped bare of all earthly clothes
No flattering gown or suitcoat fine
Nor soul from sightless eyes does shine
All cajolery and wisdom long since fled
Biles and humours and all machinery dead
The fresco of person in living years painted
With frowsty breath and ideas blood-tainted
Has, in joining this burgeoning army, crumbled
As cheek-rouge faded, the persona humbled:
Under wakeful eyes the snail is known by its shell
But the naked and the dead know each other well.
On the moor dwells Bonnie Jennie
On the cliffs she flies alone;
And her beauty is of such force
'Twill turn any man to stone.
The fairness of her wond'rous face
Has made men blind, crazed, or sick;
And the fleeting chill of her touch
Has frozen them to the quick.
And in the land a soldier dwells,
As straight as ary on the moor;
"And I must touch Jennie's hand," he says,
"Just once, ere I breathe no more."
Would you forsake your house and home,
Forsake your good friends three?
"I'd forsake it all for Jennie's touch,
I'd swim through the wine-dark sea."
Would you forsake all you know,
And forsake your station here?
"For Bonnie Jennie's thrilling touch,
I'd go with no twinge of fear."
But Bonnie Jennie beckons now,
She beckons with shiv’ring hand!
"Then I must leave you in the mist,
And say farewell to my native land."
He starts, and moves, and reaches out
To caress that impossible face;
But Bonnie Jennie flutters back,
And darts from place to place.
And the Bonnie Jennie is away,
Pulled back like a kite on a string;
And he is left with naught but mist,
And can hear not a blessed thing.
And try as he might, he cannot recall
The features of her he has seen;
He is tormented by his missing thoughts
But does not know what they mean.
Where's the sense in a-hurryin'?
Aye, what's the fuss, says I —
Them that worried their lives to death
Are the same that others are buryin'.
Them that relaxes and lays on a cot
Are peaceful, and mild, and kind;
You can't say the same for the hurriers —
Suffice it to say, they are not.
Them that are frantic, and worry,
Only cause more gentle folks stress;
To their grave is where they hurry,
But I take my time, more or less.