Behind Closed Doors
And the people like to talk,
Lord, how they like to talk
said your actual Charlie Rich.
You know, he wasn’t joking -
I’m spluttering and choking
on all the drivel I’ve received.
Oh, how they’d like to grieve,
get vicarious thrills you suspect,
like, if the last one didn’t get
you the next one might
as nation against nation fights.
Sure, they’ve lobbed ballistics
this way - and the statistics
suggest you could cop for one
but then again, that song
they vetoed in Eurovision
has only just gone and won.
More Simon and Garfunkel;
less of your long-lost uncle,
distant friends, old colleagues,
ex-girlfriends under cypress trees
that steal brains while you sleep
or so it’s wrote. They creep
out from under filthy rocks,
oh, it’s been quite a shock;
thinking of you, honest injun.
The organs and their engines
journaling above scrolling doom
in red, make you leave the room
for bed - please let’s hear it
from trapped tourists in shit.
Baby, let your hair hang down,
and let’s button our lips,
I’m in boxers, you’re in silk slips
and please, don’t make a sound,
let honeysuckle that we found
do the talking; heal the wound.
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