Here I sit on top of my years
Here I sit on top of my years
Lookin’ down on the street
Dreams queue bumper to bumper
Hipsters pound the pavement
With purpose in their stride
With time runnin’ out
Here I sit on top of my years
Finally knowing that nobody owns
The Beauty of the Dawn
Nobody has strange hidden powers
Nobody is exceptional or wonderful
It’s all a con, a deception
A party trick...
Don’t let it fool you
Don’t believe it!
The world is full of people
Who’s lives and deaths go un-noticed
A few may wander into the spotlight of history
There are no records of the poor fools Who bought the ticket
The gravestones of the unknown Are beautifully hewn
The skulls of the dead are full of beetles, logarithms and sugar
Here I sit on top of my years
I listen radio shows and peoples voices
Amazed at their excitement over nothing
Only the insane, the bank-robbers, poets and junkies are interesting
The others just spread propaganda
Advertising propaganda
Celebrity propaganda
Designer propaganda
The similarities of our hell’s haunts me daily
Time is mugged on crowded high streets
Years wash away like blood down the plughole
On a moonless night
Here I sit on top of my years
Dipping and scratching this ink
This never ending ink on paper
This diversion from living
Beauty bores me, thrills bore me
I search for childhood memories
The little boy has them
The little boy has my memories
Says he won’t share them with a poet
They’re his and his alone
As he swallows his own propaganda
Here I sit on top of my years
Tryin’ to kill my own propaganda
The dread-beat spiritual healer
Who’s spirit is bought by the litre
A robber a thief and a junkie
With a gift for the writing o’spells
A weaver of dreams and illusion
Diluting the water with wine
A trixtering Lamb in wolves clothing
soothing your pain on the way
a placebo an opiate a speed-ball
should keep those doctors at bay
A rhymer against pills for society’s ills
A blender of honey and mushrooms
A weaver of spells and secrets to tell
Here I sit
On top
Of my years.
