this country is my canvas –
i leave paint trails as i go.
i’m painting a picture
that you can only see from outer sp-ce.
my bedroom is your sofa,
i take my breakfast on the train.
i’m tired and i’m dirty, and not a second goes to waste.
i’ll be dead but never dying, and i say that with a smile
it’s just my way of trying to be alive.
well i’ll never get to grey hair
and i’ll never be in the black,
but i can tell stories that most can hardly dream.
dreaming is a luxury,
like stopping-staring and beauty sleep.
i’ll stop when i’m finished,
and sleep is for the weak.
heaven’s in the half-light, and that’s where i reside,
a whiskey and a wry smile –
i check my vital signs.
and when i’m gone,
the worlds revolve, and life goes on,
so mark no grave,
forget my name.
if the song remains
and everybody’s got a drink and a smile,
well, that’s just fine by me.