Friday, July 22, 2016

GREENWICH VILLAGE BUREAU--Notes by JC Langelle--(C) 1990

                  ---new york nemesis---
                        he is what he wears, clothes make the man--
                        and around the village he wears what he can--
                        but one thing he has and he sure doesn't lack it--
                        is his silver studded black leather jacket--
                        some guys like to wear bomber coats--
                        but with the girls they never get any votes--
                        and others are in the long wool overcoat racket--
                        but they can't beat the silver studded black leather
                        for those who like to play it rough
                        there's a set of manacles to handcuff--
                        the gal who thinks she can hack it--
                        the derelict in the silver studded black leather
                        a man's got to be at the end of his tether--
                        to be into so much glitz and leather--
                        if i had one wish
                        it would be to die in the kettle of fish
                        some late night as the village sleeps
                        and the grim reaper reaps
                        what he sows
                        beyond the rows
                        as he walks down the rows
                        of houses around washington square
                        where late at night no one dare
                        go except to the kettle of fish
                        to die, one day, i wish--
                        if i had one wish
                        it would be to die in the kettle of fish
                        as the moon sinks over the village west
                        that's where to lay my soul to rest
                        out in the dark
                        at the square park
                        underneath washington arch
                        drums beating a funeral march
                        as life goes on in the kettle of fish
                        there, i'll die, someday, i wish
                        if i had one wish
                        it would be to die in the kettle of fish
                        as fog diminishes the view outside
                        so no one there would know i died
                        except for a few, maybe one or two
                        who might have known why i was there
                        and if they had one minute to spare
                        grant me that single wish
                        and let me die in the kettle of fish--
                        before i'm old and gray--
                        keeping with tradition of protest and sedition, i
                        examined my condition working for the man all day--
                        a task that never varied as i struggled and i tarried
                        with the burden that i carried, this for little pay--
                        the alarm on the clock made me jump and walk, it was
                        useless to talk, i had nothing to say--
                        one foggy morning and with great forlorning, i gave not
                        a warning, i quit and ran away--
                        i had nothing to take, there was no one to forsake, no
                        promises to break, no one asked me to stay--
                        i set my destination and my launch defenestration was to
                        cross this mighty nation hoping that i would not stray--
                        i would travel west to east loaded down with the least
                        so not taken for a beast that need be held at bay--
                        i would travel through a blizzard, perhaps mistaken for
                        a wizard and would sacrifice my gizzard if i didn't have
                        to pray--
                        and not return again to places i had been or to find the
                        next of kin in a town along the way--
                        no one need to take pity for i'll be sitting pretty when
                        i reach new york city, before i'm old and gray--
                  published by reconpresseusa--greenwich village section--

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