The whirled is a frigging plaice

 

And in the end when you realise the dots you

connected were just dots of your

making, and so you were

wrong, and although the whirled is frigging wronger

it’s a fishy sort of plaice: the

people who live and love off it know how to

ignore the questions “why” and

“how”, and concentrate on “what’s in it for me”,

“let’s fuck us silly” and “stuff them

here and now“.

 

 

And I never did get me head around

that;

and I never did manage to wear that

virtual hat;

and I never did reach out to you in such a way

you wanted to reach out to me.

 

So the world is such a frigging place.

And it’s bigger than me.

And it’s stronger than me.

And I stand here vanquished:

wronging and wrong.

no longer wronged – that’s for

others to claim.

 

And so me song’s almost over:

there’s little more to say;

little more to do;

little more to like me for, you

provocative lot; just

seeing how tonto this little-

haired

silver-

haired man might get.

 

And all thoughts of a better life disappear

in debt;

and all thoughts of a wonderful

life remain unsaid and

dying.

 

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