And from cotton clouds he descended waved his wand and mended and restitched these regions as legions of men all gathered and clamoured for a touch of his leathery hands
The ghost of ghandi continues to bounce to an fro about this valley from the leisure centre through superdrug and the circus onto the con club and up to the academy
He always seems to end up in tears these days
Whether he's reading from the births and d**hs
Or the yellow pages
Enter stage left and enter stage right as every night somewhere unknown sunflowers pulling their way up through astroturf as the serfs and the royalty all look skywards lost in the quality of the build and still the world and his wife want a man not a god who can repeal iron laws and seal them in vaults
Its been weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks
Since they put pennies on the eyes of their dying dioceses
Stricken with wasting disease
I was sure that there would be a sting in this tale I grope blindly through each line in the hope that it will reveal itself the ceiling is so low already and still he continues to grow and grow I said "sir may I wash myself in your river" though I know that you built it out of cabbages and conifers
The invisible millstone around his neck
He sees a perfect border slice from east to west
The bulk of the villagers curse their fate
That their days should be stripped clean of symbols and themes
Doped up on cash
Fattened and bored
I zip myself up and
I ping myself home
Where every second lunar eclipse
I bring two chapped lips against her broken hips
Alright