Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Mad Night's Mourning Spin

Mad Night's Mourning Spin
{like a mad irish poet}

Bright morning light a'finding me

underneath some stairs asleep
where that Mad Dog's done taken me
away again.
While them thoughtless whores
and their washed-up scores
of this mad night's mourning
spin by me
I can see their nickle plated price tags
and count their baby-cake grins.
And the glad thing is
that no one knows me,
hear, no one can call
my name.
But the sad thing is
this show is going
and my friends aren't here
to see the game.
Well its saxophone players & pastry bakers,
juggling fools & candy takers,
little niggers dancing a tap dance
in thier worn-out black shoes.
And the wild wings of the sidewalk preacher
with the wino from thier park bench bleecher
jeer the crown chunkin' small change
like it was made of precious gold...
like it was made of precious gold!

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