Barefoot on Thin Ice HTML version

Into a state of
Moral denial.
I dream about
The song within.
Like the choirboy
In the back row
With the breaking voice
Who never got the tunes right
Archetypal prototype of the
Eunuc h wannabe.
There is a voice
That is great within us
But we keep it inside
Where it is safe
There are none so deaf
That cannot hear
But none so astute that
They will.
The cry of the soul
Is muffled by
The rusty muffler of culture
And the duct tape
That rules it.
The needs of the one
Coat the shoes of the many.
The luxury tax
On the hu man spirit
Is our tithe
To a childish God
Whose castle of cards
Almost reached his sky
Tickled his nose
And made him sneeze.
Banished to a life of
Child support
No children
No love
No death certificate