Gord

2025-03-19 01:00 am

Blonde moribund wonders in awe,
Are you not overcome with thoughts?
Dark corners of the mind overrun,
What is more wholesome, bit parts,
Or the dishcloth wrung out?

Mob, tortoiseshell guitar, 
Small, popular orchestra.
Long, golden, charmed,
Large parts of the audience hate who you are,
Hate your politics and hate your forms.

Meet under the golden arches,
Maybe as you see the darkness, 
You'll see nobody around and see you're wrong.
Where were your brothers while you were gone?

I guess to a sorcerer, blonde, it matters not,
People treated like common wristwatches,
Only useful to you when you wind them up.