There’s Music along the Way

You’re in a white shadowless cellar

And you talk to the ghost

Reflections you see of yourself

On the four walls of your cellar.

Oh, but now you’re in a pinstriped suit
And a slated boardroom with
Pale faced grims to your right and left
With painted lips soundlessly speaking.
And now it’s evening and the lights
Are bright and cold in the tube
And you stand melancholy as you
Watch it pass you by; you got late.
A dim crowded rented block is now
Your home, but when did this happen?
All you have are doughnuts and choc-bars;
Then you throw up on white ceramic.
Oh, and you spend your days
In the quiet of cigarette smoke
And maybe a statutory sniff of pot;
But you don’t drink, that makes you whorish.
Now, again, it’s the clean white cell
And you hear stray strums off a browning
Guitar and an accompanying cello
And your lips crackle as you finally smile.