You’ll die and be not happy,

This has ever been the score,

Some of you for want of nothing,

Some of you for wanting more…


Little boots did bind my painted toes

I coddled your devotions,

Now I’ve nightly conversations with the mountains and the oceans…


I’m the lake, I am the loon,

I’ll take your eye with a spoon,

I have swords as well as islands

I can make you feel your dying, try me…


A perfume from a foul disease,

From here to there I walked the seas,

But even feats as bold as these

grow tiresome and dreary,


I have felt what love can do,

Love can’t mend a broken shoe,

O I don’t covet love from you,

You would better fear me…


We’re a scar that was a wound

and puckered too soon,

I have swords as well as islands

I can make you feel your dying, try me…


“I understand it all - that is my trouble.”


Bring the poets from their brew,

March them to me two by two,

Have them know the theme is death

Then let them sing it new -


the well of wisdom is a fast latrine,

The tree of love is sappy,

Have I told you ever darling

how men die and are not happy?


When the last holly blooms

I’ll fornicate with the moon,

I have swords as well as islands

I can make you feel your dying, try me…


Fake Jive

It's just a painting, it's just a song, 

wonderous plate, miraculous rag on

holding the promise of happiness high,

beauteous speck in a dilated eye,

O you draw yourself a little leaner

and you sing like somebody meaner than you are, don't you tiger

of paper? A many false windowed thing,

A kite in a lecturing wind

awaiting intellectual strike, cast the pens down in the dome tonight.

Have you read the poets lately?

They don't get a weekly, monthly, bi-annual,

Now you may cry but I doubt you will.


Ten years is all it took, ten years in thrall to a lickspittle crook,

now you don't know the crooked lay of the land,

you don't trust any man to shake your hand without

taking a thumb or a finger,

how the vilest scent will linger while the sweetest

pass away so swiftly.

On this patriot day sound the national band,

sweep the plain you sunburnt and bland,

And I'll pollute the perfect stanza for music

in a deft show of hubris unplanned,

Hitch a skiff with a dusky daughter,

sail down a river of grey water musics,

Keeping the drain alive with all this fake jive.


Life is a painting, life is a song, it holds the promise of happiness.

I could tell you where it goes wrong

as good as tell you why the longing long,

you the poor painter, average singer,

maybe you never went through the ringer enough,

or loved it so you came out wrung.

Like a cracked bell I continue to tell

the same sad tale and toll all my failures to hold any note

or I quaver and cast about for the bluest port

in a black and white storm,

O I've got lots of advice, never listen to any advice,

be a pole, hoist your own flaming petard,

and when you blow, blow hard.



All lyrics by Glenn A Richards (Sony/ATV Music Publishing)