his leisure suit is neatly folded
benith his sweating palms
each exact line per-measured and tailored
to demonstrate to all who gaze on his corrupt face
that he is a man in need of a beach
a little drink with an umbrella and
a dusky girl named Lola

she walks the fenceline
she mends the gaps with patchs from
the pants of this girl from phish tour
and peices of the tye-dye tapestry she uses as a blanket
we mend our lives with the things we have at hand
we see our lives in the slow motion
of each days new reality
regardless of its bearing on what reality really is
its a painting of a man painting a smile on a sad womans face
sitting on hasting's whisper wall

the corporate man
with his far eastern flavors
tends to exaggerate his bent frame
over people sitting at the whisper wall
his face sings a sweet song
but his fingers set fires in the pockets of passerby's
stealing the coins of the relm
but only the ones with a stuttering king

gone down this road many a time
seen this same company of rabble-rousers
dressed in folds of scented linen
walking along the river road
disscussing in mid-evil painters and poets
but they never resolve  the questions of the universe
they never even agree what topping to get on the pizza
so much for the rule of wisdom

been many years since i sat at
hastings-on-the-hudson's whisper wall
with that girl
but i still cherish the conversations we had
and time i spent there with her
i have a new whisper wall
on a beach facing the setting sun