Sofas and #2 Pencils
Sofas and #2 Pencils-still the same song to me
poem by Phil Rockstroh and Chris Chandler
"Still the Same Song to Me" By Chris Chandler, David Rovics, Samantha Parton
At times I feel inmeshed in the loneliness and longing of all things,
asking myself what would I rather be?
THE WORDS HAVE CHANGED ON THE WATER TOWER
IN THE TOWN WHERE WE FIRST MET
IT STILL FEELS LIKE I'M COMIN HOME
IT'S BEEN YEARS SINCE I LEFT
I wonder if inanimate objects ask the same questions.
PLAY ME A SONG ON THE GUITAR
THE ONE MY GRANDMA USED TO SING
THOUGH SHE PLAYED IT ON PIANO
IT'S STILL THE SAME SONG TO ME
sometimes I'm convinced that
an exhausted sofa will sigh, longing to be a hammock swaying in a tropical breeze, tethered between two palm trees
the hammock sighs longing to be a magnificent bed in a luxury hotel in a great city while two Champaign sipping sophisticates meet for an elicit tryst
the cigarette lighter they use after there stolen hour sighs in a crazed desire to be the eternal flame that illuminates a graveyard of forgotten soldiers who gave there life in a forgotten war
the forgotten war sighs "I wish I were just a quiet evening at home."
I hear the loneliness and longing of all things
THERE IS A DIFFERENT FAMILY ON THE FRONT PORCH
IN THE HOUSE WHERE I GREW UP
BUT THAT DON'T MEAN I'M NOT THE SAME GIRL
THAT I WAS WHEN I GAVE YOU MY LOVE
and I wonder do the practical #2 pencils of accountants fantasize about drawing bawdy pictures of urban sophisticates in a luxury hotel
does the luxury hotel dream of dropping it's facade of rectitude and becoming a flop house quartering a poet sprawled on an exhausted sofa composing brilliant, unpublishable verse while being pestered by bill collectors on telephones which grow disgusted of tormenting the multitudes for niggling sums so that those telephones begin orating the sermon on the mount.
Does the sermon on the mount really want to be a Vegas lounge act?
PLAY ME A SONG ON THE GUITAR
what if there was a great awakening of atoms
THE ONE MY GRANDMA USED TO SING
where they all remembered their vast and intricate histories,
THOUGH SHE PLAYED IT ON PIANO
an Atomic explosion of memory
IT'S STILL THE SAME SONG TO ME
we might hear the tale of a fleck of floating lint that had once been a part of a soldiers boot lace that he gave to his beloved to lace her corset the night before he died in a forgotten battle in a forgotten war.
A fleck of lint that was once part of the molecular structure of the linen sheets in a luxury hotel lying beneath the skin of a cheetah, now reduced to being a bed spread, yet some how evolved into an alley cat which was gutted to became strings of violins that entertained elegant guests in a luxury hotel
THAT OLD CHURCH DOWN ON THE CORNER
WELL, IT'S NOW A CIRCLE K
GRAND MA SHE WAS LAID TO REST THERE
I STILL GO DOWN THERE TO PRAY
PLAY ME A SONG ON THE GUITAR
THE ONE MY GRANDMA USED TO SING
THOUGH SHE PLAYED IT ON PIANO
IT'S STILL THE SAME SONG TO ME
That fleck of lint now has nothing but time on it's hands
to float in the air and sing
of love of beauty and mythical beast of poverty of sadness of luxury and that fleck of lint drifts into your beer unnoticed
which you drink down and it sees the
joys and sorrows of your life and you are
buried forgotten in the earth and rise as
grass, which is eaten by cows who go to
slaughter and are served in a luxury hotel
and washed down with a beer and you, my friend, get to see Saturday night all over again.
poem by Phil Rockstroh and Chris Chandler
"Still the Same Song to Me" By Chris Chandler, David Rovics, Samantha Parton
At times I feel inmeshed in the loneliness and longing of all things,
asking myself what would I rather be?
THE WORDS HAVE CHANGED ON THE WATER TOWER
IN THE TOWN WHERE WE FIRST MET
IT STILL FEELS LIKE I'M COMIN HOME
IT'S BEEN YEARS SINCE I LEFT
I wonder if inanimate objects ask the same questions.
PLAY ME A SONG ON THE GUITAR
THE ONE MY GRANDMA USED TO SING
THOUGH SHE PLAYED IT ON PIANO
IT'S STILL THE SAME SONG TO ME
sometimes I'm convinced that
an exhausted sofa will sigh, longing to be a hammock swaying in a tropical breeze, tethered between two palm trees
the hammock sighs longing to be a magnificent bed in a luxury hotel in a great city while two Champaign sipping sophisticates meet for an elicit tryst
the cigarette lighter they use after there stolen hour sighs in a crazed desire to be the eternal flame that illuminates a graveyard of forgotten soldiers who gave there life in a forgotten war
the forgotten war sighs "I wish I were just a quiet evening at home."
I hear the loneliness and longing of all things
THERE IS A DIFFERENT FAMILY ON THE FRONT PORCH
IN THE HOUSE WHERE I GREW UP
BUT THAT DON'T MEAN I'M NOT THE SAME GIRL
THAT I WAS WHEN I GAVE YOU MY LOVE
and I wonder do the practical #2 pencils of accountants fantasize about drawing bawdy pictures of urban sophisticates in a luxury hotel
does the luxury hotel dream of dropping it's facade of rectitude and becoming a flop house quartering a poet sprawled on an exhausted sofa composing brilliant, unpublishable verse while being pestered by bill collectors on telephones which grow disgusted of tormenting the multitudes for niggling sums so that those telephones begin orating the sermon on the mount.
Does the sermon on the mount really want to be a Vegas lounge act?
PLAY ME A SONG ON THE GUITAR
what if there was a great awakening of atoms
THE ONE MY GRANDMA USED TO SING
where they all remembered their vast and intricate histories,
THOUGH SHE PLAYED IT ON PIANO
an Atomic explosion of memory
IT'S STILL THE SAME SONG TO ME
we might hear the tale of a fleck of floating lint that had once been a part of a soldiers boot lace that he gave to his beloved to lace her corset the night before he died in a forgotten battle in a forgotten war.
A fleck of lint that was once part of the molecular structure of the linen sheets in a luxury hotel lying beneath the skin of a cheetah, now reduced to being a bed spread, yet some how evolved into an alley cat which was gutted to became strings of violins that entertained elegant guests in a luxury hotel
THAT OLD CHURCH DOWN ON THE CORNER
WELL, IT'S NOW A CIRCLE K
GRAND MA SHE WAS LAID TO REST THERE
I STILL GO DOWN THERE TO PRAY
PLAY ME A SONG ON THE GUITAR
THE ONE MY GRANDMA USED TO SING
THOUGH SHE PLAYED IT ON PIANO
IT'S STILL THE SAME SONG TO ME
That fleck of lint now has nothing but time on it's hands
to float in the air and sing
of love of beauty and mythical beast of poverty of sadness of luxury and that fleck of lint drifts into your beer unnoticed
which you drink down and it sees the
joys and sorrows of your life and you are
buried forgotten in the earth and rise as
grass, which is eaten by cows who go to
slaughter and are served in a luxury hotel
and washed down with a beer and you, my friend, get to see Saturday night all over again.