“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death.” – William S. Burroughs
Through a door that is not mine that’s left ajar from time to time we see a man with zany eyes scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.
Through a window at an ungodly hour the night our neighborhood lost power we see the man pull on a mask and knit the weavings of his task.
I should have gotten quite the scare when he pulled that woman by her hair, then tossed her in the hole he’d fill and quickly cover with daffodils,
but I’m no stranger to playing detective; his plots have proven rather defective. A call to the cops brings a rap on his door that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.
Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame my ego is simply much too tame but I have kept dark things from view and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.
There is something you should recognize in that man with zany eyes; don’t always believe what you’re told to see, for he who plants the daffodils is me.
I promise I have not killed anyone. Inspired by and partially lifted from a Tommy Siegel song.