love love me do
the reply, of course,
feed me tea and oranges
that come all the way from china,
meet by the river,
meet me by the marketplace,
meet me at
the railway station,
we'll pretend to be
strangers in the same compartment,
long lost
combat buddies,
exchanging SOS's,
duelists hidden in plain site,
you'll say I like that tune,
the reply, of course,
it's a memory I haven't had yet,
it's sad and it's sweet,
someday, I'll know it complete,
when I wear an older women's clothes
puzzled,
he will try to be impressive,
trading rhymes for freedom,
verses of hearses mourning distance,
but there are no secrets
the eyes can keep,
or others cannot read,
and if freedom is longing,
then these children are free,
not at last, but to long.
They are the
children of the morning
leaning out of windows,
looking for love,
will they lean that way forever?
there are twenty eight new moons
in the month approaching.
there is a reason for every day,
plus one.
sand castles get washed away,
but
dreams of waves and days
yet to come,
continuous and connected,
the cells and words
that transverse water bodies
built from the long lasting kind of
defiance,
the kind that states as its premise:
love can and should,
perhaps even,
will,
conquer the spaces
between the letters of their
exchanges and trade
whole words for
actions.
but what do I know, little,
for I am but an observer,
a driftwood beetle from another ocean,
a linesman of a different kind,
who only know how to hum
on a long distance line,
a single tune,
she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah,
an eavesdropper of their voices
that are neither muted,
nor common.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
love love me do
the reply, of course,
feed me tea and oranges
that come all the way from china,
meet by the river,
meet me by the marketplace,
meet me at
the railway station,
we'll pretend to be
strangers in the same compartment,
long lost
combat buddies,
exchanging SOS's,
duelists hidden in plain site,
you'll say I like that tune,
the reply, of course,
it's a memory I haven't had yet,
it's sad and it's sweet,
someday, I'll know it complete,
when I wear an older women's clothes
puzzled,
he will try to be impressive,
trading rhymes for freedom,
verses of hearses mourning distance,
but there are no secrets
the eyes can keep,
or others cannot read,
and if freedom is longing,
then these children are free,
not at last, but to long.
They are the
children of the morning
leaning out of windows,
looking for love,
will they lean that way forever?
there are twenty eight new moons
in the month approaching.
there is a reason for every day,
plus one.
sand castles get washed away,
but
dreams of waves and days
yet to come,
continuous and connected,
the cells and words
that transverse water bodies
built from the long lasting kind of
defiance,
the kind that states as its premise:
love can and should,
perhaps even,
will,
conquer the spaces
between the letters of their
exchanges and trade
whole words for
actions.
but what do I know, little,
for I am but an observer,
a driftwood beetle from another ocean,
a linesman of a different kind,
who only know how to hum
on a long distance line,
a single tune,
she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah,
an eavesdropper of their voices
that are neither muted,
nor common.
Apologies to Leonard Cohen, Bill Joel, The Beatles, Glen Campbell and Nat Lipstadt, and one or two others who are nameless, from whom I plagiarized shamelessly, for inspiration.
In popular usage, SOS became associated with such phrases as "save our ship", "save our souls" and "send out succour". These may be regarded as mnemonics, but SOS does not actually stand for anything and is not an abbreviation, acronym or initialism.
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