And It Shows

And It Shows

The ice forms on the ashes,
and the snow falls on the heath.
The beast of winter flashes
gorgeous teeth.
And, somewhere in the distance,
lies the corpse of one who froze,
while putting up resistance.
And it shows.

I’m sleeping like a baby
in the cradle of the past,
while Mother’s singing, “Maybe
this won’t last.”
And the city-dwelling peasant
cries, “Tomorrow never knows!”
which only leaves the present.
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
Time is an illusion.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
Hence all the confusion.
And it shows.

I’m living in a cellar,
but it’s no good place to hide –
or so the fortune teller
prophesised.
I’ll soon go on a journey
to escape from all of those
who fawn on God’s attorney.
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
I’ve never known contentment.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
I relish self-resentment.
And it shows.

The cobwebs in the corners
make the room seem twice as small,
but, nonetheless, the mourners
have a ball.
“Life’s like a long vacation,”
says the one with Caesar’s nose,
“from sheer annihilation.”
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
The end is getting nearer.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
The message can’t be clearer.
And it shows.

There’s no one left to slander
so the critics all take tea,
beneath the oleander
by the sea.
And those who ought to know it
take a knife to Jesus’ prose,
But Jesus was a poet.
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
We’re heading for disaster.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
The servants scorn the master.
And it shows.

I’ve done a lot of bad things,
even once tried suicide.
I courted all the mad kings,
But they died.
But I’m not the kind of person
who takes pleasure in their woes
when circumstances worsen.
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
I never once forked lightning.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
I feel my chest is tightening.
And it shows.

I try to point the finger,
but it doesn’t do much good.
Remorse and sorrow linger.
Well, they would.
And the self-proclaimed imposter
throws his arms round Gypsy Rose
as next-up on the roster.
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
I never went to college.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
Hence my lack of knowledge.
And it shows.

It’s twenty to eleven,
And the room is dimly lit.
But, if there is a heaven,
This is it.
There’s a woman on the landing,
And her each and every pose
Surpasses understanding.
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
Consciousness is reeling.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it’s “One more time with feeling!”
And it shows.

And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
I’m staring at the ceiling.
And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
And it shows. And it shows.
The paint is cracked and peeling.
And it shows.