Some live in wealth, while others die, bereft —
We tell the truth when that’s all we have left.
For while I feel my mind is breaking down,
I’ll try to write while I am still around
And able, maybe, to create a thought:
Like how what no one owns can still be bought.
I come from Holland. Left there years ago,
I still can see the old house in the snow,
The mansion where my family lived and died,
On prawns and caviar and rusty pride.
If I had known you, I might not have spoke,
For we were wealthy — maybe you were broke?
When I write songs, they turn to trapezoids,
Then fade like cheap and flimsy Polaroids.
But I might write a song or two for you:
Just see that they develop, if I do.
And if you e’er in Overijssel are
Just mention me, my family, at the bar.
The Edelhert, I think it’s called. Let’s see:
Just search until you find a maple tree,
Then go left down the street that feeds a lane,
I think then there’s a deer — that’s not germane —
They’ll be a sign above an ancient door,
And Witte Wieven somewhere on the floor.
NCIS, you know, that show with Abby?
They had that episode where someone died —-
Wait. That was every one. It doesn’t matter.
I know I had a point, but my brain’s fried.
A feather duster makes a dirty bird;
And that’s the truth. Skeedaddle. Battle. Word.