Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
Then I'm dying at the bottom of a pit
In the blazin' sun
Torn and twisted
At the foot of a burnin' bike
And I think somebody somewhere
Must be tolling a bell
And the last thing I see
Is my heart, still beatin'
Breakin' out of my body
And flyin' away
Like a bat out of Hell
described as 'The Price You Pay'; the burdens of being in this skin, in this place, trying to connect whilst remaining in the self.
Either that or it's a Harley which has, predictably, failed to negotiate a mild bend in the road.
under ground / Leaned backward with a lipless grin
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone --
Man has created death.
You know I'm born to lose
And gambling's for fools
But that's the way I like it baby
I don't want to live forever
The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,
The tie, discreetly loud,
The loosely fitting shooting clothes,
A closely fitting shroud.
He liked old city dining rooms,
Potatoes in their skin,
But now his mouth is wide to let
The London clay come in.
He took me on long silent walks
In country lanes when young.
He knew the names of ev'ry bird
But not the song it sung.
And when he could not hear me speak
He smiled and looked so wise
That now I do not like to think
Of maggots in his eyes.
He liked the rain-washed Cornish air
And smell of ploughed-up soil,
He liked a landscape big and bare
And painted it in oil.
But least of all he liked that place
Which hangs on Highgate Hill
Of soaked Carrara-covered earth
For Londoners to fill.
He would have liked to say goodbye,
Shake hands with many friends,
In Highgate now his finger-bones
Stick through his finger-ends.
You, God, who treat him thus and thus,
Say "Save his soul and pray."
You ask me to believe You and
I only see decay.
Acid stains you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
I mean, Betjemen was bad enough
I don't think Dorothy Parker was emo.
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