|
I am not a crutch |
|
Although my knees are rife with woodworm |
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And the meal-worms I misheard for lunch |
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Are rotting in my guts |
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With a childhood of fingernails |
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That ripped my throat to shreds |
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A walk that chimes like church bells |
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From all these loose joints in my legs |
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These three lions |
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That were sitting on my chest |
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Are clawing hard into my skin |
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As I am gasping for my breath |
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And as they each play noughts and crosses |
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On the scratches they have left |
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I have to screw up both my eyes |
|
As it goes into sudden death |
|
They whisper |
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Really all these noughts are circles holed, bereft |
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And all these crosses crucifixes |
|
Spreading guilt and sense of dread |
|
And as we stumbled homeward up the hill |
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To where you used to live |
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The cold makes ice upon our cheeks |
|
From all the tears that we have shed |
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These things rattle round my head |
|
If he hasn't blown the whistle |
|
Then it isn't quite the end |
|
Every defeat a divorce although I look surprised |
|
It's par for the course I guess |
|
Every defeat a divorce although I look surprised |
|
It's par for the course I guess |
|
And I don't really know now |
|
What I thought I knew then |
|
You can lead a horse to water |
|
But it won't drown itself |
|
This one family photograph |
|
Always floats to the top |
|
Like a beaming, bloated corpse |
|
Though having been made up |
|
My memories are sepia |
|
But the photograph is not |
|
An historian is ****ing with them |
|
As deadly as garrotte |
|
Where they're standing in the kitchen |
|
With his arms around her waist |
|
With no idea of what's to come |
|
And a smile across your face |
|
And all the fittings are the same |
|
But every other thing has changed |
|
Must forget everything you know |
|
As though your mouth and tongue estranged |
|
Small comforts found in ABBA Gold |
|
And electronic chess |
|
When West Clewes was my Waterloo |
|
My most dramatic test |
|
Now I've been walking down the shortcuts |
|
And the alleys in the dark |
|
Because I'm not scared of the shadows |
|
They're no blacker than my heart |
|
These things rattle round my head |
|
If he hasn't blown the whistle |
|
Then it isn't quite the end |
|
Every defeat a divorce although I look surprised |
|
It's par for the course I guess |
|
Every defeat a divorce although I look surprised |
|
It's par for the course I guess |
|
But how could I ever refuse |
|
I feel like I lose when I lose |
|
And I don't really know now |
|
What I thought I knew then |
|
You can lead a horse to water |
|
But it won't drown itself |