The Scene

The queen of spades sticks me a grave,
the heavens made to hold her charade,
while God points a shotgun at my eye.
The troubadors made his way,
his blissfulness and my decay,
go together like Lucy and diamonds in the sky.
And the tailors find it hard to tell a lie,
they fix me up a suit made of arrogance and twine.
Because I said that I would make the heavens mine,
and that I’d climb over any to be,
part of the scene.
The watchman’s weakest mercy goes,
Or he can see how the turncoats blow,
a cloud of poison gas dry up my nose.
And the music’s only good as far,
as the madness in the porn aspire,
with the passion that my granduer drags in to.
And as the fruits of my tree of labour grow,
my boots are prude, the agony below,
and the illuminers and the ushers they all know,
that I’d pose as anything to be,
part of the scene.
The advertiser has kind words for me,
but the singer’s just been affirmed to me,
with her beauty her ambition and her charm.
But if you play this game you’ll learn a trick,
how to grow a pair and make them stick,
like the tatoo of Bob Dylan on my arm.
Tightly??? extends his hand,
and gives me more,
than I can understand.
He mourns me when I give in,
into those lines,
I’ve drawn in the sand.
He said jump first then decide next where to land.
On a lion’s tongue or in the middle of the sea.
Because up in the air is a place that I can’t stand,
and I’ll be myself if I have to be,
to be part of the scene.