sing a song like Yoko Ono
and dance like Stephen Fry
tell a joke like the next James Bond
for tomorrow you may die, may die
for tomorrow you may die.
drink like The Pope at Easter
eat up your humble pie
then sleep it off on pay TV
for tomorrow you may die, may die
yes tomorrow you may die.
write down your prayers for gods to read
by lamplight in the sky
but implore them not for answers
as tomorrow you may die, may die
yes tomorrow you will die.
is it she
that births the tears
of joy and pain
is it she
who made the madness
crack my soul again
is it she
who drives the clouds
away from darker days
is it she
who shines like sunlight
into my waiting gaze
is it she
who makes complete
all the parts of me
do I really
need to question
it is she, it is she.
I sit and sing
to the hickory wind
and play to
an endless sun
in weathered hopes
that both I’ll find
before my days
are done.
all Psalms are sung
the dead are gone
and those they left
must carry on
to wring their hands
and cry the tears
but where’s the solace
through the years,
forget the dust
let ashes ease
to greet the sun
and birth the bees.
the springtime of love
like it’s autumn’s fall
is the same song I sing today
ce une dichotomie ridicule
and we question not
but simply play our parts
in this melodrama’s comedy
That’s written in the scarred hearts
of September.
the passion’s fire
and its dying embers
two acts of the same play
ce une dichotomie ridicule
and we question not
but simply play our parts
in this melodrama’s comedy
That’s written in the scarred hearts
of September….toujours septembre
let me sing
a young man’s song
set to a sad guitar
let me sing it
all night long
underneath the stars
let me love
a young man’s love
and write it out in pride
to hold forever
as a rhyme
until my love has died
I watched her reading
something about Marianne
when she was a girl
she looked so pensive
thinking on the little birds
when she was a girl
she sat drinking tea
her face mirrored the noon sun
when she was a girl
I smiled from afar
on seeing her photograph
when she was a girl
I made a ship from paper
and set it on the sea
hoping that it sail away
and bring you here to me.
I started painting pictures
in lines and colours traced
to sketch upon the empty page
an image of your face.
I slept to build a dreamscape
bright and gold and new
that sometime in my slumber
I’d make love to you.
The man in sunglasses
taught me how to cry
a Canadian Jew
showed me how to sigh
a man without peace
filled me with love
so I’ll take a forty five
when push comes to shove
a bum from Duluth
gave me pause for thought
the crazy New Yorker
moved me more than he ought
and a golden haired boy
brought my dance alive
so when push comes to shove
I take forty fives.
I sailed you
like a Leonard Cohen song
exotic, yet familiar
to me, at least.
as a compass
did your glances guide me
from north to south
and west to east.
you promised calmer waters
though the storm did not avail
but my fate already courted
in the belly of a whale
and so I sit ‘neath darkened skies
in tempests of my dreams
where your image hypnotizes
all I’ve ever been.
the blighters rock 