by | Jan 1, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

You could slip aside after a broken dream
It could happen to you or me
Movin down in the city streets
Sleepin on pieces of memories
Your heroes give you money for somethin good to drink, you can pay them back on a better day
you can sing to yourself as loud as ya want in the cold wet city night, and not be afraid of repartee
you can hide from the world behind a lemon tree, cause no one is lookin for ya anyway
the burden of the world is gone, but you know you have to keep movin on
If you want to get back there with some pieces left to play

You could slip asunder after a broken dream
It could happen to you or me
Movin down in the city tracks
Messes with your dignity
The cellophane clowns, the 2 part acts abound, the smoke and mirror sorcerers, the vaudevillian cads, they’re never what they seem to be
Standin in front of the food bank, They take your money in a glance
Zombies in the park, scary monsters in the dark, waitin for a fix, thats how they get their kicks
Don’t tell anyone what you have by any means
In the daily entertainment routine

You could slip on by after a broken dream
It could happen to you or me
Movin down in the city nights
It messes with your sanity
Hobos off the trains, reflecting old refrains, from the Aqualung, and songs left so quietly unsung
The princess is native royalty, with her sweet velvet smile, she can comfort you for awhile, before she follows her brother to castle Fife, she passes you a flower, after a night in London Tower
People out in front of the hotel smoke a lot to hide the smell, of life too long out in the streets

You could slip to the inside looking out after a broken dream
It could happen to you or me
Movin from bus stop to bus stop
It questions your sense of decency
And down at the State Museum, They find it hard to let you in, with the woodie guthrie show, and the boy along your side, there is no place left to hide, as you listen to the guide, it makes it hard to see, while woodie says this land was made for him and me
The cops wait at main bus stops, watching people and computer screens, they can smell your poverty

Office ladies in sneakers get in and leave, sweet dears in rags with no more tolls, ask for money with no place left to go, they have nothing that can be sold, you can tell its christmas eve
As I slip them a dollar or 2
The next day on the bus a girl asks me whats the fuss, I’m headin out to work, shes goin on the bridge, I ask her the reason why, and then she heaves out with a sigh
To visit her mom in the penitentiary.
Yes there is life after a broken dream.


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *