I'm jumping between hemispheres this morning. Like some unlucky tongue-tied parrot, can't quite formulate the last few lines of lyrics, while, at the same time, I'm trying hard not to add up the fame, fortune, media minutes and pointless, carbon-footprint-laden, material possessions that will surely come my way.
You feel like a castaway when the postman doesn't even knock once. With publishers, no bad news doesn't mean good tidings. And news is considered good-ish when the readies are in the bank. Even then they can send round a pair of heavies, a lawyer and a pick-up truck, enter the vaults and snatch it out of your cheque book (or check book if you have money stashed you-know-where.)
So I'm dredging the underside of my brain to see what treasures lurk. There is a pile of nasty stuff here: mildewed ideas, broken promises, embarrassing comments. Then I spot something.
I left the boy of nineteen years
Sidestepped the catcalls and the jeers
Jacked myself a car and danced around with my big mouth
Pointing to the north star, turned the wheel and headed south
Whether, Baby, you stay or leave
It's better by yourself
If you find some air to breathe
Don't tell nobody else
I'm a digital companion
I'm a passport out of place
I'm the double of your old friend
I'm a copy of my face
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