SOUND LIKE MICHAEL

By W.G

So I met a wet spider in the inner city

Said she was taller than the Eiffel sometimes,

Said she could see into the future

Not too far but enough to know;

Enough to sound like Michael,

Sound like Caesar and all his Maxim Fs.

See I dream of Janet Leigh

Life of an over eager underachiever,

Poetry's Hitchcock, since Big Pop departed,

Unfortunately stuck three centuries ago,

Head lost in the Emerald Isles

When Indians played lacrosse probably,

And mothers sorta slept,

And as my ex wife can attest,

Men still grow like ingrown hairs,

When you and I escaped to the best coast,

To Santa Barbara, and all it's golden hair

But back in New York was hip-hop and hamburgers-

A wasted Fall in that glass building,

You were looking forward to the Winter though,

When you knew your father would die,

When Nixon would rise from the dead and 

I could spend a week with mansions and pills,

Brain Jackson Pollack forever,

A hot sun and the almighty dollar.

Maybe he's not all there they said

Maybe she's lying dead in that ditch for a reason.

But you were a cold brown fox,

Honestly,

When you laid out on my bedroom floor

It was the happiest moment of my whole life.

So as young lovebirds we moved to the suburbs

Decided to partake in the Long Island ghost stories,

Enter houses in the fog and rain,

The rest deemed off camera.

And heart of diamonds, no time for

Fleece-lined monogamy,

Blood splattered on cotton

William Jennings Bryan rolling around down there,

And plagued deep down with violins

and mandolins,

In the Deep South

Winter's curse, don't you know?

Can deal with a little spillage,

Memories of ivory as darkness settles on the brave Atlantic;

World's atlas slowly catching up,

Maybe they're all dead for a reason.