Son of the Mob

Finals week. Can't talk. Much love.

My Song

Boy:
Singing in the rain, under an umbrella for two,
Wet isn't damp when dancing with you.
Step and stomp across rocks and stone,
Splashing exuberant is no fun alone.

Girl:
Agreed kind sir, and we shall dance all the more.
Until mothers would scoff and stuffed noses snore.
The thunder is grumbling, and he can't give a care,
He's no dancing partner, he's got a left pair!

Together:
Well then sweep low and step high!
Sing sweet and splash by!
We'll hop through this weather with smiles alight,
We'll springtime through winter and day through the night!
Off to someplace no one knows,
Except the sun and the moon and the sycamore groves.
But first to some shelter and into dry clothes,
And together we'll mozy to that cozy trove.

Girl:
Tell me now, about the rose, and how its petals are,
I do so like the pretty things from here or near or far.
Hold my hand and laugh awhile,
Walk a little and talk a mile.

Boy:
I cannot say about its beauty, for comparison there's a lack
Do you explain to the rainbow how the tar pit looks so black?
But let us skip and dodge the cracks,
Lets us spare our mother's backs.
Climb the trees and shout aloud,
Say hello to happy cloud.

Girl: It is good to have a friend, it is nice to hop along
Boy:I agree and further more, it is nice to have a song.

Together:
Well then sweep low and step high!
Sing sweet and splash by!
We'll hop through this weather with smiles alight,
We'll springtime through winter and day through the night!
Off to someplace no one knows,
Except the sun and the moon and the sycamore groves.
But first to some shelter and into dry clothes,
And together we'll mozy to that cozy trove.

Boy:
I traced along the past, a woodgrain old and worn,
And found among the craggy cracks some sadness in them borne.
I dusted every shelf, to remove all the dirt,
And found amidst the layered planks stains and in them hurt.

Girl:
Sometimes what is needed is a canvas for the paint
Whether the picture is lively, happy, sad or having pain.
Sometimes some tea and a kindly ear,
Can be a rest and ease of fear.

Together:
Some days it takes more than one to dance among the sane.
And others it takes an umbrella and a smile to stay out of the rain.

November Morning

There I stood within the mist
Where the white and silence kissed
And only the darkened cavities
Of empty windows and alleys
Faded into existence, like sullen ominous ghosts
Stalking me in the brittle spittle of November's morning mist.

I shuddered, damp and fevered
In a world drawn with delicate silver
And the road at my feet forgot to finish
A thought lost; a futile wish.
I walked to the edge of the road in the fog
And there in silence relinquished.

Another ghost to the morning dew
A musing in sleep that waking slew
So like the road, I am forgotten in this
My thoughts lost with a futile wish.
Fading from existence, a sullen subtle host
Standing alone in the brittle spittle of November's morning mist.

Troy, almost finished.

Yeah, you get it. I'm busy, so, uh... type at you later.

Ballad of the Buzzard

Seductress scavenger, coy carrion collector,
Formidable fowl, oh, circling siren:
I cannot help but be enthralled
By your charred black pluck-ed wings,
And of those yellow red-rimmed gems
My heart indeed it sings.
I worship every bristled hair sticking from your crown,
And every featured feather that fits flippantly among your down.
You entreat me with your raspy squawk,
And by it I can be but brought.
Behold the long and slender neck, with its soft and gentle folds,
That sprouts from a spectacular mane, and to the head it holds.
Oh, to count the warts upon your flat and forward head,
Would be to count the amount of beasts that I would bring you dead.
If only you would let me give you all that I could,
All the dead and dying would be yours to have for good.
I would spin in circles o'er just to smell your odor,
And build the best of nests to be a haven for us older.
Your rusted lanky talons play my heartstrings songs of love.
It plays a tune more glorious than that stupid morning dove.
Your beak! Your beak, oh dreamlike you speak,
Its smooth surface caked with the carnage of the bleak.
I would stop a car for you, and a tractor-trailer too,
Just to eat on the highway with a buzzard such as you.
To feel your warmth,
To be your mirth,
To love for life,
And be your worth.
This dream of, I do each day
As I swing atop the morn's decay.
No matter if it's rabbit or fox,
Or cat or squirrel or hen or cocks,
I will always be with thoughts of you,
The buzzard with which I wish I flew.