Soldiers, Wounded Tunes, Elusive Moons...
When your Saturday cracked its head open in the rain
what life styles poured out?
The escalator claims it will take us up,
even if the doctors all warn us not to go any higher.
Soldiers, with their wounded tunes,
argue passionately against the bleeding news,
nothing much to do but move the whole show
onto some elusive moon, where the play dates
are still alive; Examine the size of the room
in your heart, count the heads of all who live there;
It wasn't even raining, and that cracked head
has a twin brother, just got out of some hard to pronounce stir.
Free agents with their heads in volatile rivers.
Explain nothing to the driveway in your mind,
it will either make the cars who park their happy
or not.
The understanding men are coming now.
They've gone over our charts.
They all look a bit young, they all look very very clean.
Should I trust them?
Should I hide my last inch of smoke?
The dogs are pacing something troublesome.
The man with the plan can't find his teeth.
Guess I'll continue to take up space here,
space said it was okay, went off to rebel with
its good buddy time.
Rebel against what, you ask?
Do I look like Marlon Brando in a black leather jacket?
Be my valentine, even if it isn't anywhere near February.
Can you yodel? Can you take it with a smile?
Can you take it at all?
The soldiers and their wounded tunes
are coming now. Make room, back up, open that door wider.
The dogs are up to something strident.
They won't let me get close enough to wag their tails.
---Scott Wannberg |
