Cold Day In Hell

Spring has come, the birds return
From their winter homes.
The birds and bees sing in the trees
And poets write their poems.
Love's in bloom in secret rooms
And beauty fills the land.
Hearts on fire, filled with desire,
But death is close at hand.
Death is close at hand.

And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell.


Summer's come, the birds in flight,
Days filled with blue skies.
And summer nights are summer days
Dressed in a dark disguise.
On their knees beneath the trees
The lovers holding hands.
Hearts on fire, filled with desire,
But death is close at hand.
Death is close at hand.

And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell.


Autumn's come, the birds move on,
Leaves are on the ground.
A secret hand moves through the land
But doesn't make a sound.
Lovers grieve among the leaves
And dream of what they'd planned.
Hearts on fire, filled with desire,
But death is close at hand.
Death is close at hand.

And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell.


Winter's come, the birds are gone,
The world white with snow.
The cold can kill when the wind-chill
Is twenty-five below.
Love gets old and grows so cold
It makes too few demands.
Hearts on fire, filled with desire,
But death is close at hand.
Death is close at hand.

And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell!
And it'll be a
Cold day in Hell.


Spring has come, the birds return
From their winter homes.
The birds and bees sing in the trees
And poets write their poems.
Love's in bloom in secret rooms
And beauty fills the land.
Hearts on fire, filled with desire,
But death is close at hand.
Death is close at hand.
Death is always close at hand.



Elmer Wigby

What can we say about Elmer's mother?
Probably nothing that hasn't been said before.
She was the sort of woman who
looked great from a distance, felt good in the dark,
and could drive a man to distraction.
She always carried a spare pair of panties
in her purse - just in case.
And what about Elmer's father?
Well, he didn't stick around for very long.
In fact he didn't even stay for breakfast.
Elmer was 14 years old
and had gotten an A on his science project.
He had built a radio set all by himself
from a kit he had ordered through the mail.
(He wanted to communicate with someone.)
His mother was very proud of him.
He always got A's in school.
But none of the other kids liked him.
They teased him and bullied him
and called him "geek" and "dork" and other names
to make themselves feel superior.
And Elmer, he just wanted someone
to notice that he was special,
to recognize that he was worth something.
His mother understood that he was special
but she had needs of her own.
She was getting ready to go out that night
and Elmer knew that he would be alone again.
While she was trying on tops and perfecting her face
he sat quietly, staring into his aquarium.
(His fish didn't seem to need anyone to be happy.)
His mother was hoping to meet a man at the bar,
a particular man this time.
She had bumped into him at the grocery store that afternoon,
literally and perhaps deliberately.
He smiled at her and they exchanged pleasantries
(he was the father of one of Elmer's classmates)
and he gave her the impression that he might
be able to get away that night.
So, with high hopes and wearing her sexiest top,
she said goodbye to her son.
She told him to behave himself
though she had no intention of doing so herself.
The bar was unusually crowded for a Wednesday night,
but she was able to find a table where
she could see anyone who came through the door.
She waited for hours, trying not to drink too much,
but her friend never did show up.
"After all," she consoled herself,
"he didn't actually say that he was definitely going to come."
Still she was disappointed, and she wondered to herself
why she would wait so long for a man like that to show up.
She guessed that she was just trying to satisfy some need
but she wasn't quite sure what it was
or how to go about satisfying it.
It was getting close to closing time
and she realized that she had had a bit too much to drink.
But she figured she could probably make it home all right.
She had done it many times before.
At home Elmer was sitting comfortably in the easy chair,
staring at the television,
watching old movies on a cable station.
Elmer loved old movies. They were his only true friends.
He was watching "Rebel Without A Cause" that night.
He wished he could have had a friend like James Dean,
someone who would lend him their jacket,
someone who'd be there when the world ended.
Not long after his mother left the bar
she spotted a young sailor standing next to the road.
To her bleary eyes he looked like a nice enough young man
and she invited him into her car.
She didn't notice the look in his eyes,
the expression that matched the tattoo on his shoulder,
a skull and crossbones with the word "Mom" underneath.
They found a dark and quiet place to park
and it all started out friendly enough.
But somewhere along the way things went bad
and Elmer's mother didn't enjoy it very much.
He did terrible things to her that night,
things too horrible to relate here,
things that would have made you cry.
And she never made it home that night.
She never made it home ever again.
Home, where Elmer was sitting quietly in the easy chair
watching his very last old movie, motionless, unattentive.
He had taken a knife from the kitchen
and opened up the veins in his wrists.
He had gotten blood all over the carpet
and all over the easy chair.
(His mother wouldn't have liked that.)
"West Side Story" was playing on the television.
Natalie Wood was singing, "There's a place for us.
A time and place for us. Somewhere. Somewhere."
They found Elmer's mother in the back seat of her car,
her clothing torn, her body bruised,
her eyes lifeless but full of tears.
They found Elmer in the easy chair covered with blood.
He was wearing the paisley sweater
that his mother had bought for him.
He had always hated that sweater.
It made him look like a dork.


All the lonely people.
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people.
Where do they all belong?



My Dad

My dad, he works in an office.
My dad, he wears a suit and tie
and carries a briefcase.
He must be a very important man.
He often comes home late at night
after we've finished our dinner.
And sometimes he works on weekends.
And sometimes I wonder if he really
likes being with us.
And sometimes in the middle of the night
I see him in the living room
Sitting in the dark with a drink in his hand.
Killing himself slowly.
Killing himself slowly.
I don't want to be like my dad.

My dad, he rarely comes to my baseball games.
My dad, he says he just can't get away.
He's got too much work to do.
I used to think he didn't want to come.
That was before I knew about the layoffs.
Every once in a while the bigwigs at the company
are afraid they're not making enough money.
So they lay off some of the people there -
the ones who are really doing the work.
They do this every few months or so.
Some of his best friends are looking for work.
And I see him in the living room late at night
Sitting in the dark with a drink in his hand.
Killing himself slowly.
Killing himself slowly.
No, I don't want to be like my dad.

My dad, he hasn't been himself these days.
My dad, he's been worrying a lot.
They had another layoff at the company today
and this time they let my dad go.
I guess he wasn't working hard enough.
I guess he came to too many of my baseball games.
He says he doesn't know what he's going to do.
Jobs are pretty hard to come by these days,
Especially jobs that pay the kind of money
that he was making.
And he's not sure where the money is
going to come from,
The money we need for our house and stuff.
And tonight I'll see him in the living room
Sitting in the dark with a drink in his hand.
Killing himself slowly.
Killing himself slowly.
I sure don't want to be like my dad.



Hallelujah
(Alternate lyric to the Leonard Cohen song)


Now David was a man of God
So he must have found it a little odd
The way His gift of love can do things to ya.
Bathsheba was another man's wife
But he wanted her, so he took a life.
Yet everyone still sings his Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

Well, I met you walking on the street.
My conscience fled when it smelled defeat.
The angels knew they could not compare to ya.
You told me all those pretty lies.
I saw right through your thin disguise.
But when you moaned my heart sang Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

No, you're not the best I've ever had
But sometimes good things turn out bad.
Even those who said they'd be true to ya.
But that was very long ago.
Those fields are filled with ice and snow
And fading memories of Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

So you gave me what I needed most.
No Father, Son, no Holy Ghost
Could make me feel regret because I knew ya.
And when I called you back again
I knew you were my only friend.
Your skin inspired this poor man's Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

And if there is a God above
I wonder what He thinks of love
And the arrows that it fashions to shoot through ya.
'Cause it lifts you up and it breaks your heart.
Sometimes it tears your world apart.
Yet everyone keeps singing Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah.



Sometimes Like Strangers

Well, sometimes it's Heaven in the morning
And you're lying there in my arms.
And it's then that I feel that our love is real
And that no one can do us any harm.

And sometimes we go out for lunch together
To enjoy each other's company.
And the smile that I see across the table from me
Would make any man feel he's lucky.

Ah, but sometimes the world comes between us
And threatens to tear us apart.
And we've both made mistakes but we've got what it takes
And somehow we make a new start.

Yet sometimes it seems like we're strangers
Each living a life of our own.
And how you feel about me is a big mystery
And sometimes I feel all alone.
Yeah, sometimes I feel all alone.


But sometimes there's peace in the evening
When I'm home and the children are gone.
We cuddle on the couch and you cheer up this old grouch
And that's when I feel most at home.

And sometimes there are fireworks in the nighttime,
And though they're not quite like they used to be,
Even to this day they take my breath away.
They're still the best thing in this world to me.

Ah, but sometimes I wonder what you're thinking
And if I'm the one that you're thinking of.
But with so many years filled with laughter and tears
It seems silly to doubt our love.

Yet sometimes it seems like we're strangers
Each living a life of our own.
And I'm as sure as I can be of my insecurity
And sometimes I feel all alone.
Yeah, sometimes I feel all alone.
Yeah, sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Sometimes I feel all alone.


Ah, but sometimes it's Heaven in the morning
And you're lying there in my arms.
And it's then that I feel that our love is real
And that no one can do us any harm.
No, no one can do us any harm.
No, no one can do us any harm.
No, no one can do us any harm.



Alone At The Party

I'm alone at the party and I'm talkin' to Jose
And I'm tellin' him 'bout how my baby went away.
She just up and left me with my best friend Ray
So you see, I don't have much to live for today.
Now that my baby is gone
I don't think that I can go on.

But Jose says, "C'mon, I can make you feel better.
I've got something here that'll help you forget her.
Trust me. I can chase all your troubles away."
And it's no use arguing with Jose.
You know how he always gets his way.

And now my head's spinning as the world turns again.
They say that someday the world's gonna end.
Well, if the world's gotta end, then let it end today.
Let the angels come down and take it all away.
I've got nothing to live for, no reason to stay
Now that my baby's gone
And I'm alone at the party.


I'm alone at the party and I'm talkin' to Jack
And I'm sayin', "I don't think my baby's comin' back.
I just know it's over. What more can I say?
That son of a bitch, he took her away."

Then Jack smiles and says, "I don't mean to sound crass,
But there's no use fretting over a little piece of ass.
All you need's in the bottom of this glass."
And when I try to tell him that I really did love her
He just shakes his head, "You'd better have another."
And it's no use arguing with Jack.
My baby's never coming back.

And now my head's spinning as the world turns again.
They say that someday the world's gonna end.
Well, if the world's gotta end, then let it end today.
Let the angels come down and take it all away.
I've got nothing to live for, no reason to stay
Now that my baby's gone
And I'm alone at the party.


And I - I used to be someone.
And I used to be special, and I used to be loved,
And I used to believe in the heavens above.
But then - Then He came along
And everything started to go wrong.
And I suppose that's the point of this song.
Now my baby's gone
And I'm alone at the party.


We're alone at the party, Captain Morgan and me.
We've been here a while and we're startin' to get silly.
How many is a duck? Unicorns are horny.
Albatross! Albatross! She turned me into a newt.
And you can't teach an elephant to play Scrabble.

But then I stop laughin' and start cryin' again
And nothin' really matters, my world's at an end.
The Captain just winks, "You'd better have another,
And another and another and another."
And it's no use arguing with The Captain.
No, it's no ushe arging with The Captain.

And now my head's spinning as the world turns again.
They say that someday the world's gonna end.
Well, if the world's gotta end, then let it end today.
Let the angels come down and take it all away.
I've got nothing to live for, no reason to stay
Now that my baby's gone
And I'm alone at the party.

Yeah, my baby's gone
And I'm alone at the party.



Shithouse Blues

Well, I'm sittin' in de shithouse
Waitin' fo' my bowels to move.
Yeah, I'm sittin' in de shithouse
Waitin' fo' my bowels to move.
Since my baby up an' lef' me
I got dem ol' shithouse blues.

Yeah, my baby up an' lef' me.
She say she don' love me no mo'.
Yeah, my baby up an' lef' me.
She say she don' love me no mo'.
She done tol' me Happy Birtday.
Den she walked out our front do'.

Went down to de Piggly Wiggly.
Bought me 'bout fo' quats o' booze.
Went down to de Piggly Wiggly.
Bought me 'bout fo' quats o' booze.
And a jar o' pickeled pigs feet.
Wid pigs feets you just cain't lose.

Well, I started drinkin' heavy
An' callin' out my baby's name.
Yeah, I started drinkin' heavy
An' cryin' out my baby's name.
She never tol' me why she lef' me.
I reckon I know who's to blame.

When I drank up all de whiskey
I started drinkin' rum instead.
When I drank up all de whiskey
I started drinkin' rum instead.
De rum went to my stomach.
De whiskey went to my head.

Now I'm feelin' kinda po'ly.
Folks calls it de brown bottle flu.
Yeah, I'm feelin' kinda po'ly.
Folks calls it de brown bottle flu.
I been sleepin' in de shithouse.
Don't know what else I can do.

Tryin' to make it to tomorra.
It's bound to be a mighty long ride.
Tryin' to make it to tomorra.
It's bound to be a mighty long ride.
Dem pigs feets liked to killed me.
Dey made me feel all bad inside.

So now I'm sittin' in de shithouse
Waitin' fo' my bowels to move.
Yeah, I'm sittin' in de shithouse
Waitin' fo' my bowels to move.
Since my baby up an' lef' me
I got dem ol' shithouse blues.



My Magic Bullet

Sometimes I wish that You existed.
Sometimes I wish that You were real.
And though I know You're just a fable
I just can't help the way I feel.

So many around me believe the nonsense
They've handed down through generations.
But not me - I'm far too rational.
I care more for Truth than pacification.
And I've got my logical argument,
My simple proof that tells me so:
"If there really was a God in Heaven
Then He would have let Me know."
(I have no hope of convincing others
But it's enough for me. I know.)

But sometimes...
Sometimes I wish I had a friend.
Someone to talk to when I'm in trouble.
When I don't know which way to turn.
And this... This is one of those times.
You remember that guy I told You about?
That guy who's been after my wife?
Well...

Well, now he's dead. I shot him dead.
I put a bullet through his head.
As she laid there in his arms
And let him taste all of her charms.
And yes, it's true. I shot her too.
Well, what else was there to do?
She was the only one I loved.
My precious gift from up above.
I did my best to treat her good.
I gave her everything I could.
And though she knew my love was strong
She was untrue. She did me wrong.
She let that bastard kiss her hair
And then she let him touch her there.
She let him touch her everywhere.
It was too much for me to bear.
And so I snuck up with my gun
And as I watched them have their fun
I cursed and let the bullets fly.
One in his ear. One through her eye.
And then my soul and spirit died.
I fell down on my knees and cried.
The only one I'd loved was gone.
I couldn't face another dawn.
My very reason for life was gone
And I just knew I couldn't go on.
And so I died.


Sometimes I wish that You existed.
Sometimes I wish that You were real.
And though I know You're just a fable
I just can't help the way I feel.

Sometimes I just wish there was someone
To forgive me for the wrong I've done.
And for all the mistakes I've ever made.
Oh, how I wish there was someone.

And sometimes I wish that there was someone
Powerful enough to undo it and make things right.
An omnipotent God able to turn back time
To before this thing happened, before any of it started.
But, if such a God existed,
Why would He let it happen in the first place?
Why would He be so cruel?
We were so happy - me and my wife
Before that scoundrel came into our life.
Why would You give me something so beautiful
And then take it all away?


Sometimes I wish that You existed.
Sometimes I wish that You were real.
And though I know You're just a fable
I just can't help the way I feel.

And I wish there was someone who cared enough
To prevent me from doing what I'm doing now.
Someone who'd send me down a Clarence
To save me from jumping off the bridge.

Because You know as well as I do
That I saved a single bullet.
One very special bullet.
I like to call it My Magic Bullet
Full of Finality and Truth.
For You see, with this one bullet
I can find out once and for all.
With My Special Magic Bullet
I'm gonna find out
If You're for real.


Sometimes I wish that You existed.
Sometimes I wish that You were real.
And though I know You're just a fable
I just can't help the way I feel.



The Forest And The Lake

I went to the forest today.
That magic place that quiets my soul
and reminds me of my place in the world.
I wore a hat that had belonged to my father
who long ago taught me to appreciate
the beauty that can be found.
I often wear that hat when I go there.
It gives me the feeling that he's there too.
And perhaps he is, in one way or another.
His footsteps were not so different from mine.

I found the perfect peaceful spot.
A secluded bench on the edge of a lake
surrounded by cottonwood trees.
I sat silently on that bench
and stared at the lake for hours,
mesmerized by its changing colors,
amazed by the beauty
which was a reflection of the beauty of the world.
I was immersed in the coolness of the breeze
and soothed by the music of birds in the trees.
A mourning dove called to me from another shore
and I knew I'd heard that voice somewhere before.

There's a great deal of beauty and peace in this world
and a great deal of ugliness too.
Sometimes we find, no matter how hard we try,
that we cannot eliminate the ugliness.
We cannot escape from the strife.
So, instead, we must search for the beauty
and learn to appreciate the peace
when we find it.

Don't let the beauty pass by unnoticed.



My Quiet Place

One prophetic day in autumn
I could sense that winter was approaching.
That there weren't going to be
many more days like this.
So I spent the afternoon at my quiet place
(a bench in the middle of the forest)
listening to the wind,
and watching the leaves fall from the trees.
I could hear the voice of the wind
whispering something in my ear.
Could it have been trying to tell me
that it was time for them to fall?

Just as I was drifting off to sleep
I was awakened by the sound of rustling leaves.
I opened my eyes expecting to see
a deer, or some other animal.
But it was just two people - two ordinary people
walking hand in hand along the path.
Just like two others who'd walked before.
Before the temptation. Before the fall.
I watched them as they walked on
leaving me alone again - alone with my thoughts.

I am not afraid of being alone for being alone's sake.
But I'm often envious
and I tremble at the thought of being lonely.
I'm afraid of being unwanted and unloved.
I'm afraid of being unappreciated and unsuccessful.
I'm afraid of being just one of those leaves
lying on the ground.
But I'm not afraid of oblivion.
I'm not afraid of the abyss.
I ignore the whispering of the wind
and let myself drift back to sleep.
I'm no longer convinced that
everything has a purpose.
When I sleep without dreams
I'll no longer pine for Eden.



Summer Nights

Here I am, sitting alone on my deck
in the middle of the night,
a glass of tequila in my hand,
staring at the moon
shining down through the clouds.
I'm listening to crickets
and air conditioners turning off and on,
wondering what's become of me.
What have I done with my life?
I used to have things I looked forward to,
things that I believed were really going to happen.
Nowadays, not so much.
These days I pretty much just get by.
I take a long drink from my glass
and savor the feeling as it goes to my head.
I hear thunder in the distance.
Somewhere out there a storm's a-brewing,
but it's still calm and dry here.
I am comfortable in my solitude,
at peace with the moon and the stars.
Ah, but I can tell that a hard rain's comin'.
A hard rain is gonna fall.
I'm comfortable with that as well.

My dreams are dying. I can feel them slipping away.
My dreams are dying. I can feel them slipping away.

I remember other summers
with sparklers and pop bottle rockets,
watermelon and home-made ice cream
at Grandma's house on the Fourth of July.
Playing softball in the front yard.
All of us together on the front porch
watching the fireworks at night.
Oh, the glorious summer nights.
Babe Ruth baseball at Memorial Park,
the smell of snow-cones and popcorn.
Camping out in the back yard
with my neighborhood friends.
Playing hide-and-seek in the dark.
Catching lightning bugs.
Telling ghost stories and dirty jokes
about things we didn't understand.
And other summers, later on,
when I thought that I was grown up:
Taking my best girl to the drive-in
and not seeing much of the show.
Oh, the glorious summer nights!
Where have all those summers gone?
Where does the time go?
(Those were different times
and I had different dreams then.
Those dreams are gone now,
and that's all right.)

My dreams are dying. I can feel them slipping away.
My dreams are dying. I can feel them slipping away.

I remember another hot summer night,
driving all over town, alone,
sometime after the rain had come and gone.
Driving, driving, driving,
not knowing where I was going.
Pools of neon color shining on the asphalt.
Steam rising from the hood of my car.
Somehow I ended up downtown.
Downtown, where everything was still alive.
Young people leaving bars and parties.
Couples holding hands, making eyes at each other.
Groups of people laughing and having a good time.
How I envy them. What am I doing here?
Why do I keep on driving? Why don't I just go home?
But something keeps pulling me on, prodding me,
drawing me onward toward the darkness;
the darkness and warmth
and sweetness of summer night.
A sickly sweet scent permeates the air, after the rain,
reminiscent of dead flowers and bubble gum.
Young girls in short skirts lurking on sidewalks
hoping and dreading that someone will pick them up.
I look but do not touch, and wonder
why any of this makes sense.
Does any of this make any sense?
(Sometimes, in the heat of passion,
we want things that we should not want.
And sometimes it's better for us
that dreams don't come true.)

My dreams are dying. I can feel them slipping away.
My dreams are dying. I can feel them slipping away.

So now, here I am again, sitting on my deck,
the only one at the party, basking in the moonlight,
with my memories, regrets, and a bottle of tequila,
wondering why I'm all alone on a glorious night like this.
I think maybe someday I'll go driving again,
somewhere out West.
Just driving, driving, driving,
not knowing where I'm going.
And I'll end up in some cheap motel somewhere
in the middle of nowhere, maybe Southern Utah,
with a bottle of Jack Daniels
and a dead cockroach on the floor,
thinking about throwing myself into the canyon.
Wouldn't that make a splash?
(Perhaps I've been gazing into the abyss for too long.)
And maybe someday I'll wake up in a dirty jail
somewhere out in Colorado, or San Francisco,
or Shanghai, or someplace like that,
and I'll realize that this has all been a dream.
Nothing but a dream. None of it was real.
And maybe, just maybe,
I'll eventually come to the conclusion
that all the hopes and dreams I hold so dear,
all of my crazy, crazy dreams
are just that.
And anything but what I can touch
in the present moment
is a dream.

My dreams are dying, but it's all right.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.
Life is but a dream.



Another Cockroach

Sometimes the cockroach doesn't die.
Sometimes he just crawls away,
hides silently in the darkness,
and comes back another day.

As I embark upon my futile quest
to right all wrongs and locate the grail,
I'm aware that a cockroach named Lancelot
has stayed behind, and is creeping around the castle
with intentions of wooing my Guinevere.
Ah, but it's an innocent relationship (they say),
like David's friendship with Bathsheba.
He only wants to talk to her,
likes her portraits, wants to watch her bathing,
and be with her whenever he can.
And she - she wants to be with him too,
as innocently as before, though she denies it.
She tries to keep it a secret from herself and me.
So now, the writing's on the wall.
Some great calamity will eventually come of this.
Nothing can stop it. Someone is bound to get hurt.
History always seems to repeat itself for poor Guinevere.
She never seems to learn her lesson.
She never recognizes her mistake.
And I - I just continue on,
doing my best to keep her happy,
trying hard to conceal my sorrow and fear,
especially my fear of cockroaches.
That's why I always say
that the only good cockroach is a dead cockroach.
I don't think I'll ever find that stupid grail.



The Dark Ages

And when they came for me
I was sitting in my living room in the darkness, 
my head pushed back, my face wet with tears,
a cigarette burning between my fingertips
that had never touched my lips.
I knew that they were coming.
I hadn't bothered to lock the door.
They would have just broken it down anyway.
They burst into my room, hurling insults and threats,
smashing everything in their path.
They pulled me from my chair, pushed me through the door,
threw me down the stairs.
And there - there on my front lawn,
they beat me savagely in front of my neighbors.

These - these paragons of virtue
who'd set themselves up as judges over us all.
They, who out of all the myths in the world,
had chosen the right one.
They believed in the one true God.
They knew what He liked and what He didn't like.
They knew what He wanted, and He wanted them to do this to me.
So, as they tied me to that tree and set the kindling ablaze,
they recited words they'd memorized from their Holy Book,
words that justified their actions,
words that proved that I was evil.
I was an abomination in His sight, a menace to society.
For I - I had known forbidden pleasure,
forbidden passion, forbidden love, forbidden joy.
I had kissed another guy.
I was the scourge of the earth.



Going On ...

It seemed like only yesterday
I stumbled through the gallery
And all my paintings were gone.
I felt I couldn't go on.
I fell asleep on the lawn.

I turned on the radio
A hundred years from now.
No one remembered my song.
I thought that something was wrong,
And so I just sang along.

Then it occurred to me
It was only in my mind.
That mystical melody,
No one had heard it but me.
There were no paintings to see.

I wandered down the avenue
To the house where I once lived.
Nobody recognized my name.
It seemed to me such a shame.
I felt at home just the same.

There must be something wrong with me.
I'm not sure who I am.
And I don't know how to feel.
But is that such a big deal?
Won't someone tell me what's real?

There won't be any memory
Of the dreams I have concealed.
Ah, but if they'd all come true
Would I be talking to you?
But now, what else is there to do?

I guess you've heard it all before.
What more is there to say?
I could go on and on and on.
I could go on and on and on.
I could go on and on and on.
 

Edited 1 time by MSebring May 2 13 7:31 AM.