Custard
I want my lyrics to slop out slowly,
Like thick sugary custard,
And douse the world, falling uniformly
As an infinite duvet over pastures of plenty.
My yellow tones could seep
Between your ears, filling
The crevices of your cranium
Until you sank in to a sucrose coma.
I’m not sure music can do this anymore;
If things sung or stated
Can evoke emotion through life’s commotion.
Born today, I bet that
Wagner would compose TV soundtracks,
Dylan would write jingles,
And Coltrane would be in Conan’s band.
The messy goodness of music has expired;
It’s become mouldy and a skin’s dried on top,
Which can be pierced and exploited:
“I am great ELVIS”, saith the rock (‘n’ roll),
Just a fat chump in a campy jumpsuit
Whose mincemeat words
Will be remembered for all eternity.
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