Too many judgements
Too many pains
Torn like a page from a book
And called a crook
Judgements like lampposts all along the street
Walk, my shadow without me
Let me sleep
The milk hates the cream
Like the jailor hates to dream
Looking through windows into rooms
He fears what he sees
He cannot sleep for all their eyes are upon him
So he drinks – to sleep in oblivion
The judges of the country gather
They have a yearly soiree
Their souls, riveted and welding in
Their truths held in suspension
The court attendant wears a tight leotard
she is not dressed for the occasion
She looks like a lap dancer
Looking for a different liaison
A judge in a prostitutes leggings
Wanders across the waiting room
Her head held high in mad defiance
Touched by the ivory light of the moon
Listen can you hear in the distance
Judgements insistence
Please judge, turn your microphone on
so you can reach the ears of the woebegone
That stands there in his bedevilled mind
That knows not where he’s going to;
or where he’s coming from
