My sweet old father's sweet old friend used to tell me stories of love as we wandered the Gothic cliffs of the ever-crumbling North.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend breaks his sweet, toughened heart of supple leather for a living.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend sings sweet songs of nothing, to no one, with a medley of sweet old gentlemen whose bitter, twisted noises shall never do a thing to match such a heartbreaking voice of truth,
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, with the special, sparkling twinkle in those ever-shining crows eyes, discarded the jewels of his kind, heart-warming stare of those sweet lover's eyes,
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, instead, prefers the blindness to love and light and sweet truths of nothingness that can only be held by treasured artists, such as his dear self.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend has a mother, a dear, dear, heartbreakingly wonderful and ever effervescent mother.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, total purity of a loving heart from years before the cold dead war scarred our children's minds with the rattle of bullets and the play of toy guns in the night.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, foolish as ever he was, as ever he shall be, threw his life away for a woman locked up inside an invisible box, ever wasted and bittered, lessons learned too late.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, sweet as ever there were such a sweet taste upon a lover's young tongue, old as an elephant, secrets untold, skin crackling under the baking sun, life between every fold.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, is, no doubt in my mind, to be buried at sea.
Let the waves wash over my sweet old father's sweet old friend. The man, the god. The poet, the light. Let the sweet waves of eternally long time wash his cold pain away, mix the tears with pure salt. Let the sweet fishes of the sand eat away his sparkling, ever-shining eyes, let them take away his stories, his sketches and push them out into the world against ever-tumbling cliff tops and the wash of sticky salted foam upon your toes as you wander, effortlessly along, collecting pebbles to add to your collection of eternal nothingness.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend breaks his sweet, toughened heart of supple leather for a living.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend sings sweet songs of nothing, to no one, with a medley of sweet old gentlemen whose bitter, twisted noises shall never do a thing to match such a heartbreaking voice of truth,
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, with the special, sparkling twinkle in those ever-shining crows eyes, discarded the jewels of his kind, heart-warming stare of those sweet lover's eyes,
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, instead, prefers the blindness to love and light and sweet truths of nothingness that can only be held by treasured artists, such as his dear self.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend has a mother, a dear, dear, heartbreakingly wonderful and ever effervescent mother.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, total purity of a loving heart from years before the cold dead war scarred our children's minds with the rattle of bullets and the play of toy guns in the night.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, foolish as ever he was, as ever he shall be, threw his life away for a woman locked up inside an invisible box, ever wasted and bittered, lessons learned too late.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, sweet as ever there were such a sweet taste upon a lover's young tongue, old as an elephant, secrets untold, skin crackling under the baking sun, life between every fold.
My sweet old father's sweet old friend, is, no doubt in my mind, to be buried at sea.
Let the waves wash over my sweet old father's sweet old friend. The man, the god. The poet, the light. Let the sweet waves of eternally long time wash his cold pain away, mix the tears with pure salt. Let the sweet fishes of the sand eat away his sparkling, ever-shining eyes, let them take away his stories, his sketches and push them out into the world against ever-tumbling cliff tops and the wash of sticky salted foam upon your toes as you wander, effortlessly along, collecting pebbles to add to your collection of eternal nothingness.
