After forty years, there are far more fools
than can fit on one hill. With a bucket
full of southern fried broken blackbird wings,
I look at my children and watch them play
Guitar Hero: while the young loudly whoop.
I could kill for a bungalow, only
the market stall barely pays for make-up
and a helter-skelter ride. Life is not
a mystery tour. Since revolution
number ninety-nine, I miss her fingers
on my detonator - and happiness
is a cold war. Love is all about need.
Everybody still has something to find,
except in songs about pigs and monkeys.
Comments
FTSE100 | July 30, 2009 - 09:02
Here's your problem as I see it: you forgot to pay the bungalow bill. From now on you'll just have to live a piggy life.
sunshine | July 30, 2009 - 12:43
Well you’re a lucky man you’ve made the grade,so no need for a good reason for taking the easy way out. Margot
chuck | July 30, 2009 - 16:00
Always, no sometimes, think it’s me, but you know I know when it’s a dream. I think I know I mean er ‘yes’ but it’s all wrong, that is I think I disagree.
Ewan | July 30, 2009 - 16:37
Goo goo ga joob.
threeleafshamrock | August 12, 2009 - 23:14
...or submarines; regardless of colour or the yellow stars, that twinkle in the sky, like diamonds.