Onto the lord

Oh the throne is trembling
trembling is my throne
fear brooks no dissembling
shaken to the bone

and all poverty's distress
stress is always groveling
life an endless game of chess
all the shit we're shoveling

     onto the lord
     who calls us calls us
     come all ye come aboard
     he calls us calls us
     to the bitter end
     and he's no man's friend

in the garden of the blind
cavorting with the hungry ghosts
all waiting for another sign
for another empty boast

about girls walking in pairs
and the men strolling alone
towards the windy empty stairs
where everyone's to push that stone

      refr.


April 1985