Soft, soft, the ground caves in.
And the calendar shows you’ve been running thin,
for the letters in your head are all shapes in a cave
forgotten but secretly safe -
and your grandma is bellowing “Oh my days!”
As if it weren’t enough to remind you of when
you weren’t there and the town was another place,
if only you could have seen her smile then.
Pagliuca, Pagliuca! Stop sipping that Snakebite.
Your attendance is poor and your focus is shite.
If only you tried a little harder you might,
but the ways of the world are clear and drole,
and you are left to believe in a satisfied soul.
That is easier than raising your voice,
even more so than ignoring the chore of a choice.
Despair is little when you are lairy oh Larry numb.
The anaesthetic which spreads from finger to thumb,
in a rattle of what sounds like African drums
and the clicking and the typing and the silence of the Texum.
A whale of a time for a while in a way,
gets you thinking of all them other days
where you felt and flicked, not scurried and clicked
and in the loving of Nabokov there was no shame.
But the digital, digital gunning of sin
crept up as those gangrened from cancer of skin.
Soft, soft, the ground caves in
and the calendar shows you’ve been running thin.
But lo, and behold, the Emperor is dead -
If I’m losing the benefits you may as well take my head.
For the books have set fire, for you have made your own bed.
Reluctantly shadow behind those who have shed the remorse,
the passion, the purpose, the regret,
Seemingly reasonless to reason what seems,
the intolerable arrogance of those who tolerate and deem
well, the lines of the high stands of the pitches of Win,
But soft, soft as the ground caves in
and the calendar shows my friend, you are running thin.