Word Franchise

The grim arm of the word-reaper carries a scythe for culling those who have not paid for the franchise. There's smog at the door and a picture in crayon is spooned underneath into the waiting embrace of my tinplate toy.  'Tell me the worst,' I say.  'Rent's spent!'

'Then it's plague-rats for you,' comes the voice as he hobbles off on his perky spine and dog boots.

I might as well try writing on washing-up water.  There won't be any more lyrics tonight.  I could play a fingerbone fanfare on the sax, try a few newspaper ladders, throw darts at magazines, but I can't see a sleeve trick that will do the job.  I have the next array of chords and even a suggestion of a riff, but there it ends. Mavericks and lookalike husks won't do.  Not from the heart.  Not from the collective soul.  Can only wait for the publishing boss to come pounding with his jemmy.  Let him do his worst.