That suicide sunrise that dies in the minute it takes to wake,
every day it dies a little away and every day I try to save it,
some bastard on Britain’s got talent gave it
five out of ten.
no talent there in the judgement chair,
they should make them
and I notice that kiss that dies as it rips me apart
only to start a healing,
the sweet delicate delightful process of feeling
and I feel it,
that’s already electric and sends a shock through my system,
oh those kisses I missed them when she went on holiday.
where’s option fifty nine?
on the telephone they don’t give you time and won’t give you your dime back.
I play the Steinbeck
one key misses and sounds a bit duff
which fits in well with me looking a bit rough
but that’s musical stuff and I don’t understand
should have got a baby grand then I could grow
the suicide sun
dies yet again.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.