I had a dream in the spring,
of monks that pulled the ropes,
so bells of bra** would ring.
But Charlie was a horse I couldn't ride!
Of isles of wooden pews,
filled with old women' walling.
A drunk in from the cold,
desperately hanging to the railings.
Of children fidgeting,
mothers chiding,
fathers glaring,
while all the while,
those bra** bells were blaring.
But Charlie was a horse I couldn't ride!
A mans mouth full of prayer and eulogy,
all dressed in black,
so fine and spiffy,
a women in front,
all tears and sniffy.
Up the cry down the row,
I think I see a face I know!
It frightens me to see what's real,
to finally know the spoke from wheel;
‘cause all the while it's me inside.
For Charlie was a horse I couldn't ride!