Ate chocolate,
drank too much.
Christmas time is
such a joy.

Where's the boy known as
the sun of man
Mary's child
the son of Stan?

Caught up in traffic,
what a loss
missing this,
he'll be cross.

I had a swell time
for a Brit,
stood in the front line,
I did a bit
of cheer and played charades
parading this way that 'till
someone guessed.

The best games are framed simply in
the faces
of the young
and us older one's
had the most fun.

Taken on a trip through the why don't I slip through the net?
set back from the light in the shadow  that might be the shadow of me and
who is free is he who can see the night shift its shape,
landscapes on canvas and seascapes in galleries, it's no wonder to me why Valerie went over to the other side.

Positive thinking in the tin where yesterday is chinking its chains does  my brains in,

Weary,
eyes bleary and nobody hears me,
it's that kind if say you get lost on the way, but I'm used to it.

On the tube.

I stand can't sit and these people just look and don't give a **** about me which all sounds like Valerie.

If this is the day and I am who I am, who's got the script
where is the man that I used to be

' why don't you come on over Valerie'

At the point where the afterburner turns into the foreground I look around me,
there is no Valerie and
only what's left if the dream wasn't right,
the night shifting shape
the rim on a wheel,
sometimes I feel
unreal.

I'm filled by anger, and much doubt.
This world is a filthy place.

Living on the afterburner of a broken fantasy,
it was better in the old days.

Who could possibly think that in the blink
of a starling as he winks at the sky
there's a hidden meaning,
in trying to find out the what
and the why I never know which way or
what way is the quickest way to go.

Dorothy had her red shoes,
mine are black
hers had heels
mine are flat
which doesn't alter the fact
that when backed into a corner
I would like to run.

I'm here on afterburner
ready to turn a
new leaf
but it's autumn and then some
and I'm numb with the cold.

Looking for an entertainer? Birthday, moving to a new home, marriage?
Phone the Fartist. Produces funny noises and nauseous funks.
It’s your birthday. You ask for a song and dance. That’s what you get and more.
Kids imitate the gross concert and adults hop around keeping their noses to the candles. And the birthday guy? He loses gas and wins a secret pleasure.
You’re moving to a new home. You ask for an afterburner blessing. You get that and more. The new carpet gets a long shush, the walls a staccato salvo, and exclamations of wonder are accompanied by exhumations of thunder. In the end the family lullabies itself to sleep with a gassy purr.
You’re marrying. You ask for cannons and rockets. You get that and more. The wedding kiss goes with a **** and a swish, the wedding cake comes with a choking chopper and the dance is a medley of winds and bombs. At night the couple both turn their gasses on each other.
Afterwards the Fartist receives many a compliment and complaint about the stink he raised. We love your **** aria’s and **** bolero’s, but can’t you deodorize?
The Fartist doesn’t reply but thinks to himself: Where did I hear about odorless gas before? Do they want gas chamber music?
O well, what has been lies ahead of us and what’s coming creeps up from behind.