I wanted to make you King—
by stoop-kid
Chelsea would be yours to rule
by night, and the fools of the bars
would lift their liquored skulls
from every bar top, cheering the anthem
of your glory, from the 13th Step
to Clandestino.
and when we take all of Angel's Share,
I'd follow the resplendence of your
staggering figure along concrete carpets
while the traffic-jam parade
flashed their headlights in praise of
the Urban Royalty and his timid right-hand rebel.
oh, how we are adored! and even if
we are mistaken, what care could we give
when the streets are ours, and every footstep
turned the pavement to gold,
and each mechanical cart propelled us further
in our conquest from terminal to terminal.
I wanted to make you King—
but the Blue Moon in my hand
does not match that of the one that shines,
(nor do I shimmer as it does...)
besides, you already are the King—
all I am is timid and left-handed,
and I'm longing to be adored.