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| Migraine and His Girlfriend | |
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| Migraine and his girlfriend Listen; Farmer while you till these fields, To the soft compression a mere image yields, Thanks be to mind, when ripe for the picking, Glory rain that spells, sown seed is tricking, A theme that seems to stem lush acre, Only two dig: the Harvester and the Undertaker. A third less known, less made in the shade, Grows from the rows, obscenely displayed, Stuffed tuft in old clothes, defeats with a pose, Simulacrum sacked, paradigm supposed. How he gets the job done, is any fools guess, With a hole for a soul, in a crucified rest, Lucky for flying, it don’t take much brains, Birds of a feather have never thought of such things. With Gunnysack tact, propped up to defend Your bloom as it ‘shroom, separated from stem, Although he may look it, there’s no dim to his wit Day and night every season, his stitched grimace stay fit, So bring on the lush, and the dry winds of fate, Construct an effigy of him so his story relate, Tip your hat sharecropper, show respect to him sire And leave your matches at home so he doesn’t catch fire Chadwick James (poet/singer/songwriter) Tucson AZ Migraine and his girlfriend I'm not very good at knocking on wood, or even with luck it seems, in fact anything just hurts my head. Ever since meeting migraine and his girlfriend, I think I'd rather be dead. It all started in a country pub one night when I called a man out for a fight. A stranger. His eyes were black as coal, his tongue like red-steel to me, he was the devil's favourite, I swear beloved by a witch and then when I hit him with a mighty left his bottom lip did split. As he bled, there was 'something' he said that sent a shiver down my spine. The witch cast a spell over me , made me drink the cider strong, I loved the stuff, was it rough but that goes without a song. And in the morning when I awoke a mouth full of straw. fragmented limbs slowed me down and I was tied high up on a pole. My inside were ripped away as if to bare my soul. Through me you see, in fields, the bales of straw and one arm dropped in a sling. But worst of all the small people opened up my mind with pick and shovel time. To the syncopated beat of the devil's band they created a noise so loud I couldn't stand . And such is the curse I'm in a kinda quiver. The birds, you see, have eaten me, pecked away my spirit, my heart and liver. -Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, United Kingdom |
