Newsagents

All the salutations
Of an arabian horse
When he meets a nomad
Of the magazine course
Slipping in and out
Its so sad
Pop goes the weasel again

Furthermore the sycophants
Are creeping up to heaven's door
Lord knows I tried to stop them
Before the shit hit the fan
And every so often
I shot them
With a gun shaped like a man

Because speaking of what I am
I need a bullet head
My razor brain
Is blunted by all
The hard things she's said

Shoot me into Eden
Nothing's perfect but the dead
And they stay that way forever
Inspite of the Vulture's being fed

And I had a close shave
The type they give privet hedge
But nothing's sacred, nor private these days
You have to find your own window ledge

The birds in the steeple
The people are all making jam
And a hundred hungry wasps are swarming
Wanting to eat every last gram