Sunday, April 22, 2007

The Pessimist Manifesto

I claim no pessimism on my part,
you'll do good to do the same.
To each their own.


He’s got an asking price to go along with that cockeyed grin
And a interest in heliographs that’ll make your head spin
But a halfhearted whisper puts his nose into the ground
Where his ears shudder in fear at each and every sound
To bottom of the top where the birds got no cares
And the salvo of the grace is playing musical chairs
And you, you sneer as if you’ve got an arm for holding doors
But you shut your mind up when anything so much as snores

Then a lacking masquerade of sooths are selling futures cheap
And you grab up a few while they’re picking your pocket clean
Then the time comes and you’ve got no money to pay
But they give you the goods for free, cause they’re feeling generous today
You have a lost violin looking for a missing string
You’ve made off with a fortune and you think you’ve been the king
But you lost all your life in the blink of a tree
When the asking price was carted off with the violin’s creed

There’s a hell that exists and it does so on this earth
When you fall into the world at your firstborn’s birth
And you’ve never felt a thing until one depends on you
But there are no words left, to scrape up to make it true
Oh, the last king of the forest is capping off his flock
And selling them one by one to whoever comes and knocks
You’ve got no trail home and the path overgrows
As your feet in uncertainty try to discern where to put the toes

But an oven is left on and it serves as candle light
As its heat fills the room and gives away its life
And your sure that the house is just around a corner
But you make so many bends that your sure your stick was shorter
And somewhere sits a gypsy with his masks on the wall
And he drew the long stick and since has had a ball
But all the Cinderella’s and all the king’s men
Have to pretend to enjoy him while he makes it seem so grim

Like your feet he wanders and wonders
He scraps up a quarrel ignoring the over-unders
Help a clown, that he is, he asks for no ones’ gold
He has enough to make his escapades squarely unfold
A picnic blanket rests where a bear used to sleep
And you make the noises that are made when around him animals creep
There is no way to hold your hand down
You want to raise your arm even if no one is around

Help a man who captivates the forest on his own
He must treat everything as an overturned stone
There are no suspicions left too wild to imagine
When you’ve been alone so long that friars’ meetings sadden
That there are no lilies to keep the orchard white
Or the sun from screaming down and smoldering your eyes
The last supper is had on the December creeping frost
When the trustees are gathered and leap about the moss

The sermon on the mount is never near or far
The sermon on the mount is seldom grieved for
Though its message is forgot with each son begot
The lashers lash their tongues and scratch at their spots
Calling all cars there’s a life in pursuit
Of something happier than a captivated group
There are those not willing to be someone else’s savior
And they’re trusted most, when the rider’s unsheathe their rapiers

We’ve no war left that isn’t worth a fight
There are no scrimmages left that don’t deserve a try
We’ve gone past the fork and to the deadening end
That leaves us cornered and looking for a buyer’s friend
We’ve no one left to look for when we need someone to use
Nothing worth fighting for except for not to lose
We’ve nothing left to give that wouldn’t end our lives
Why aren’t we giving? Why to us do we lie?


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