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I've done everything that can be done to heal this wound |
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Left it on it's own for years |
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I've done everything that can be done to heal this wound |
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Left it on it's own for years |
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Couldn't touch it, didn't pick it, didn't get it wet |
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It didn't stop the bleeding |
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I bandaged it, I wrapped it, stitched it, tourniqueted it |
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I held it stiff and aching in the air |
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Held it there til I went beserk |
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Didn't sleep |
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It didn't work |
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Didn't stop it weeping |
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And the wound is your life |
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And your life took on a life of it's own |
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(Or so you foolishly thought) |
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And your life rolled on over me Bang-Bang like 56 train wheels |
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Every time I heard news of you |
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And the wound was in every lousy song on the radio |
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And the pain was like a tree-fern in the dark, damp, forgotten places |
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Darkness didn't stop her growing |
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New-born baby cells dividing ... |
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Curled up tight unrolling day by day |
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Stretching up, stretching out |
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Forming the same identical shape |
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Clones. There aint too much sadder than |
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Clones - relentlessly emerging from the hairy heart of the wound |
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And the fern is beautiful in it's own way |
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Uncurling in the dark |
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Beautiful with no one there to see it |
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As the wound weeps and aches |
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(Now there's some sad things known to the man from the planet Marzipan) |
