I’m the shadow of the man In a no-parking dreamland I’m born to die Inside a ventilation shaft You came to me a hundred years ago With a list of things I must do But the museum of my tasks Are covered in security systems
I’m the shadow of a man Beneath the carpenters workbench I stare with my big caterpillar eyes At the buses in the distance My body is as useless as a dead beetle On roller skates, blowing a whistle I’m going to California too Before the great wave pays its bills and leaves
I’m the shadow of a man That used to be a light switch A removal van came for the light bulb And spread its wings like a ladybird In the underground station The floor developed measles And the last train was announced By a spider
Trilobites need love the same as you or me.
The trilobite was wise, but its wisdom was wrong, wise and wrong;
Like a train driving along a track waved to by females from Greek theatre on their way to school.
The trilobite floated up to the moon at night and at daybreak floated back down into the sea.
Once, hearing a timid knock on the door I opened and in walked a trilobite soaking wet. It spoke with the sound of a small foundry and as it breathed out a small gas jet appeared above its head.
I read in the local paper about the mass extinction of trilobites.
That night they haunted my dreams where they got drunk, smoked pipes and made their peace with big John Wayne before he cantered through the neon mountains of the ocean floor on his cavalry horse
One day I went to the shopping market and everyone there had a pet trilobite on a lead.
I asked someone where they got them from and I was told they were a free offer in the local newspapers glossy weekly.
Lighting up my gas lamp I could see many of them had escaped and were hiding in the corners.
With the onset of WW1, the trilobites formed a regiment of their own and fought against the notorious U-boats, so feared by the enemy for collecting fingernails and toenail from which they made a crunchy snack.
Here in the is dialogue, I try to bring the trilobites back to life so that you may never forget the roll they played in our financial history. In eating our money and turning the national gold deposits into hay. And supporting charities like the homeless cockroach fund and free shaving kits for gorillas that we get in the post, the shaving kits that is, not the gorillas. There’s a law against that!
Isn’t it funny how having seen a fossilised trilobite you never forget it? But after a mass extinction, all that you have are the fossils.