Not lanky, the ghost in the "bodaget" hat
Quite frankly, his body's too swollen and fat
Black spiders, possessively coiled in his locks
Swings chanting, he sits in his chair and he rocks
With his eyes displaced
and his tempered face
He looks quite out of place
he waits, decrepit and grey
Start screaming, the clown in the opium daze
Bright streaming, euphoric he creeps with a gaze
Mom's sleeping, he silently slides down the hall
He's watching, while Jennifer plays with her dolls
He remembers when
She'd always play with him
but he's been put away
dust in his lungs
decrepit and grey
Black lantern, cast shadows on everything
The attic, where Jennifer throws away things
They pile up, the skeletons of her youth
They slip out the gables and onto the roof
A true hidden treasure of a song writer. This gent has been capturing songs in demo form on old tape recorders since the 80s. . . and he's still capturing his magic sounds in his secret basement. Damien Youth