Well it's 2am
and I'm sittin here
drinkin my whiskey
and reading Dylan
and singin a song or two.
And I kinda don't know
just where I am
Slipped into an existential jam
so I lean back
and close my eyes for a while.
Can somebody tell me
what the hell's goin on?
I thought nothin'd changed
just rollin along
then I thought about this little song
The kids, they ain't list'nin
to this stuff no more
We don't even speak
the same language for sure
How I ever got to this side of the fence
I don't know
Pour me another
it's near time for bed
got me a whole load of places to go
Don't have time to waste no more
cause it seems to me we're a long time dead
Yes sir
Comments
scratch | July 8, 2012 - 08:51
Parsons, I simply love this one. The quiet knowing and introspection, somehow studded with pathos. Whistful and haunting. Some regret and loneliness too. Actually it's crammed full.
Superb.
Parson Thru | July 8, 2012 - 11:05
Hi scratch. Dreaded looking at this! Equivalent of drinking and dialling. Having a 'mare trying to produce a cover for Biddles to print on a book. Why is it so hard / expensive? Thanks for flattering this piece. Hope you and family are well.
Stan | July 8, 2012 - 11:48
'The kids, they ain't list'nin
to this stuff no more
We don't even speak
the same language for sure
How I ever got to this side of the fence
I don't know'
Yeah... I've been thinking that more and more recently. I could hear Dylan's voice behind these words. Crammed full, as scratch says.
Parson Thru | July 8, 2012 - 12:09
Thanks Stan. Thanks cherry-person. Just come back from ringside with scratch and seen the cherries. Thank you. Really wasn't expecting that. Not that I 'expect' cherries ever... oh, hell, you know what i mean. Thanks. Glad it touched a nerve.
Rigel | July 8, 2012 - 13:27
Well done on the cherries, mate. More than deserved.
Rigel
blighters rock | July 8, 2012 - 13:36
There's a saying; 'Poor me, poor me, pour me another' and this came to mind reading this song of a poem. Alcohol, the grim reaper, has a lot to answer for, but it couldn't give two shits about you or me. In fact, it's doing press-ups outside my door trying to get me to go down the pub so it can spit on my body in the gutter once I'm done. No wonder the kids don't speak the same language these days, but will they learn where this unhappy chappy unlearned the meaning of life?
A great piece of work.
Parson Thru | July 8, 2012 - 15:56
Thanks Rigel. Thanks blighters. Wise words. Same old, same old I think mate. No one has been born smart yet.
Linda Wigzell Cress | July 8, 2012 - 17:43
A thoughtful piece. Just the sort of thoughts that come into the head in those early hours of wakefulness.
Linda
Parson Thru | July 8, 2012 - 21:38
Suffering for it now though. Thnaks Linda.
MistakenMagic | July 15, 2012 - 16:26
Love the colloquial voice in this one, PT. Though I may be guilty of being the aforementioned 'kid', this poem still speaks to me on a lot of levels. Well done!
Magic xxx
Parson Thru | July 16, 2012 - 07:51
Thank you MM. The kids are alright.
the unfolding head | July 18, 2012 - 14:35
in many ways this is you all over PT... I could hear your voice all the way through. A great read (& new letter posted y'day)
Parson Thru | July 18, 2012 - 18:39
New letter! Yay! Been scribblin away since the last one - too much to say. Really good of you to comment mate. Nice to hear from you.