Encased in basement shadows
where spiders hang from ceiling corners
like dead men upon the gallows,
stirs the ghost of a forgotten child-
his body rots in a shallow grave,
but still his eyes are glowing wild.
Sitting alone in harmless study,
I saw his eyes before me burning-
for what rage still held him home
like an arrow lodged inside his brain,
my stomach set to churning
in helpless wonder of his pain.
Sweating and frantic, I called out:
“what is this visitation about?
Begone, if you mean to do me harm!”
Fixed upon the air alone,
those emeralds held their bitter tone,
and from the dark there stretched an arm.
It held my shoulder, and in alarm
a scream bellowed from all around
that froze my body to the ground.
Then the eyes flew through the floor,
and the scream flew out the door-
I don't go down there anymore.
To you, the California King,
breathing fire when you sing-
know the power of your word
to stir the hearts of us who heard,
and let it give you every reason
(in what seems an endless season)
to bring this momentum to a head,
and tell the world what must be said.
Slim would have been proud to hear
you channeling such honest fear.
To the flea who leaves the ground-
listen how those notes resound
through head and heart,
and heat and beat,
into the artist on the street.
Even in the brightest light,
your true power hides from sight-
the truth is, you have been the tether
which has kept the band together.
To the bones of rock and roll
bearing resemblance to Will Ferrell,
barreling down like a crazy train-
tap like thunder, and pound like rain!
There's no mistake that you could make
but not to beat until you break.
To Josh, or John, or Slim, whoever-
You are now in the song forever.
Your cries were carried by the waves
across the seas and through the graves
to melt those souls encased in ice.
You've found the sound of paradise.
The radio is so obscene;
it has no soul on which to lean,
but you bring hope to fill the hole-
there is still strength in rock and roll.
A glorfax found a bolloro
and hid it under some snanxa-
the snanxa groughed though,
and the bolloro was no more.
Alas, the glorfax could not glorf.
In communist wasteland
billboard show dictator-
says, "Work hard
or we make you miserable."
billboard show pearls-
says "Work hard
or you make you miserable."
In Borga Borga,
Island five miles wide.
In communist wasteland,
election is fixed.
In American election,
opinion is fixed.
In Borga Borga,
TV in communist wasteland
for poor in Borga Borga.
TV in America
blame Borga Borga.
Borga Borga blame TV.
Nobody want to live in
beautiful Borga Borga
Of all the woods I've wandered through,
the most surprising was one of bamboo-
within photographs I'd seen quite a few,
and so assumed they'd be a greener hue-
but this, it turned out, was highly untrue.
Bamboo, I have found, is a shade of blue-
with maybe some splashes of yellow too.
Australia they say is filled
with all the things that get you killed-
snakes and spiders, birds and bats;
venomous dogs, and dog-sized rats.
But who in counting could forget
Australia's infamous national pet-
which is, of course, the Shoe fly.
Like rocks with wings, or drops of dry;
like drones of death, the scouts of hell,
the souls of all the men who fell
to thirst along this twisted track,
or like some angry god's attack,
they swarm in shapeless, shifting form!
A black mass like a violent storm
is aiming for our ears and eyes!
Swatting is hopeless, but still one tries
to ****- just one! To no avail-
it's easier to **** a whale.
Locked in sweep, or swoop, or swirl,
they'll never sleep- just loop and whirl,
cry like a hammer who drives a Hummer,
then clothe me like four coats in summer.
Thus cause is clear why we now cuss
like Australians- the flies finally got us.
So valiantly did he die upon a little hill
Of greenest grass and under sweetest air,
And he died grinning for his unfailing will,
And for what eternal glory met him there-
And his courageous heroism will be told
In song by each new coming generation
Who still sing those fighting songs of old
Within our proud and glorious nation-
What true sacrifice and supreme nobility
Lies in he who serves our shining vision
So that everyone here can grow up to be
Just like him, or better, on television-
Because he believed in his bleeding heart
What it means to die for where you live.
If he had one regret, and was let to restart-
It'd be that he hadn't another life to give!