four in the morning

time is a wheel
and it’s bearing down on me
time is a wheel
and it’s bearing down on me
how to outrun what isn’t free?
i still don’t know what i can be

hope is easy
when it is the first time
hope is easy
when it is the first time
but not when bells have lost their chime
and not upwind the squalls of mimes

be my comfort
deadly jesus, yeah be my friend
be my comfort
deadly jesus, yeah be my friend
brake the wheel afore story’s end
my soul to keep and ever mend

time is a wheel
and it’s bearing down on me
time is a wheel
and it’s bearing down on me
stars like dewdrops across my knee
lacuna matata on the cliffs of scree

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2015

tavernacle choir

in a tavern somewhere called the bag of nails
was a bank of cloud, the lair of the bear
he chain smoked so bad he’d light the whole box
and chat up the fox working the bar

a wretched man, we heard him to say, was he
an astute man, we sniffed his way, would he be
if in tongue lashing’s stead he regained face
and chose to be dead to the ways of disgrace

“what would you know of grace?” he asked we
“i was once considered lord of the dance”
“really?” we asked, “could one fall so far off?”
then we laughed like drains as he downed one last pint

a wretched man, we heard him to say, was he
but a blessed man, we ought to have said, was he
a nazarene broke bread, bled wine in his place
weighed with the dead, and waived time and space

but wretches would not share grace with the wretched
so a lorry got him

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2014