A fake smile and a fin holding a skewer whine at the acrylic of the cat-flap. 'Let me in, you word breaker!' The big publisher man has his methods. If it isn't an ex-wrestler with charity wristbands, then it's some kid on puberty pills and lawnmower blades. The German Shepherds are never far away with their skinned raincoats and rifles stuffed with dummy bullets. All this before lunchtime. Nowhere to relax and few places to breathe now that they've nailed down the frames and gun-filled the floorboards.
'All right, all right,' I say, ' next verse or maybe the chorus. Will that get you off my back, you leech with ocean-deep eyes?'
Bm, F sharp m7, GM7
Whether, Baby, you stay or leave
You're better by yourself
If you find somewhere to breathe
Don't tell nobody else
All through Bill Evans and beetroot and lemon zest, I'm tormented by the double negative.
No comments:
Post a Comment