Makeshift

I'm living in a makeshift house of glass,
Pretending to be someone that I'm not,
Explaining that I'm cool, when I am hot
And bothered, baseborn and of higher class,
Diseased and healthy, energy and mass,
A mass of contradictions: footloose, caught
In my own web, free of corruption, bought,
Fish in the ocean, pigeons on the grass.

The face I see, at every morning's shave,
Has two sides, like my burden of a soul,
My heart, my argument. It is my goal
To find a single point of view to save.
If I could make one wish, the boon I crave
Is making my poor makeshift being whole.

Thy Little Ones

We rose from our hard beds, refused to weep
(Although we used the word — our skills for hire),
And climbed the ivied walls, however steep;
We could have used a chariot of fire,
A spear, a sword, a bow of burning gold,
But we had none of these productive tools.
We nursed instead a fear of growing old,
Admiring folly and persistent fools.
Someone spoke of the treasures that they hid
Inside the pages of the family Bible,
And I shared my thoughts, as the others did,
A feeling that was primitive and tribal,
Looking around for something soft to lie on.
Meanwhile we wept, when we remembered Zion.

The Truth Is Not

I popped the candy in my mouth, and yawned
The day is done at last, so is the night
He said, "Beware the elephants in flight"
I aimed for love alone, despair was spawned
You stole the chickens from the frozen pond
She said I couldn't sing, you said I might
The candy in my mouth was a delight
This is my home, I am a vagabond

The truth is not a joke, it is a leer
It is a bridge of iron and of sighs
The unexpected surge is no surprise
I understand that courage is just fear
You breathed life, as you burned the atmosphere
I swallowed candy, and your wicked lies

Since Nineteen Eighty-Four

At first, he said he never told a lie,
Then he confessed that there were two or three,
Then told us he's been lying constantly
Since nineteen eighty-four, just to get by.
He got away with it, since he was sly
And hid his anger and inconstancy
Behind a mask of deep serenity,
Pretending he was just a Belgian spy.

The truth was almost certain to emerge,
So he was always ready with a plan
To deal with all his friends' dismay: he ran.
He left a note explaining that the urge
Was irresistible, it was the scourge
Of his sad life. He was an evil man.