false pretense
a lack of resonance
a derisive sentiment and confidence
these bonds were always faked
crafted for safety's sake
but pasted wings and foil rings
do not an angel make
I see you've left me with your, your last word
it's ringing
with the noteless shrill of jealousy
and the claims of imperfection
and the crying out for the things that you deserve
but you're voice is never audible beneath the anger
in your words, it's ringing
it's breaking me
you can't belittle this
this could change everything
this one is mine to believe
this is unparalelled grace that's like gravity
a clarity i've never seen
or ever heard
since your last word
I see you've left me with your, your last word
it's ringing
with the noteless shrill of jealousy
and the claims of imperfection
and the crying out for the things that you deserve
but you're voice is never audible beneath the anger
in your words, it's ringing
it's breaking me . . .
and the hottest words can cauterize
and in anger there's just wasted time
so your last word is just another I won't hearI am reminded at this point of a fellow I used to know who's name was Henry, only to give you an idea of what an individualist he was he spelt it HEN3RY. The 3 was silent, you see. Henry was financially independent having inherited his father's tar-and-feather business and was therefore able to devote his full time to such intellectual pursuits as writing. I particularly remember a heart-warming novel of his about a young necropheliac who finally achieved his boy-hood ambition by becoming coroner.
The rest of you can look it up when you get home. In addition to writing he indulged in a good deal of philosophizing. Like so many contemporary philosophers he especially enjoyed giving helpful advice to people who were happier than he was. One particular bit of advice which I recall, which is the reason I bring up this whole, dreary story is something he said once before they took him away to the Massachussetts state home for the bewilderd. He said: "Life is like a sewer: what you get out of it depends on what you put into it." It's always seems to me that this is precisely the sort of dynamic, positive thinking that we so desperately need in these trying times of crisis and universal broo-ha-ha, and so with this in mind I have here a modern positive dynamic uplifting song in the tradition of the great old revival hymns. This one might more accurately be termed a survival hymn.
When you attend a funeral,
It is sad to think that sooner or
Later those you love will do the same for you.
And you may have thought it tragic,
Not to mention other adjec-
Tives, to think of all the weeping they will do.
But don't you worry.
No more ashes, no more sackcloth.
And an armband made of black cloth
Will some day never more adorn a sleeve.
For if the bomb that drops on you
Gets your friends and neighbors too,
There'll be nobody left behind to grieve.
And we will all go together when we go.
What a comforting fact that