Happy birthday, beloved.
It seems as if it's about to repeat
nearing the hour, 40 years to the hour
The birth certificate read,
that Stan Wackowski was born at high noon,
Knickerbocker Hospital, Borough of Manhattan
Six hours from now, you would be 81
were it not for the accident
Me and the kids were playing scrabble
You went upstairs to nap,
when an easterner blew out the windows
A bolt fell the oak outside the bedroom
Ten years of wedlock crashed through the roof
If you're listening... the kids are grown
Bill's a doctor. Little Stan's with the FBI
Different living arrangement, different scenario
Out of Hatteras, a storm empties again,
my legs are too spinney to run to the basement
When hands on a clock fold
one on top of the other,
the clock cunningly winks.
Thunder nears.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment