postcards from New York City in poetry

they say that God gave moles their digging claws
and since God matches advantage to equal flaws
that high-and-mighty bastard stole away with their eyes
they say there always has to be a trade-off
don’t want to sneeze no more you’ll get a cough
they say it’s always give and take with those kinds of guys

they say sometimes it seems like all of their dreams
are postcards of Coney Island they saw as little kids
and they say Lord, Lordy Lord, Lordy no
they never ever got to ride the Cyclone
by their hands or those of God’s, no, they never did

they say that God gave all the birds their wings
how God gave them all of the songs they sing
but to compensate He gave them real short lives
they say it’s never one without the other
I’ll say that it’s bothering me, brother
how it’s always give and take with those kinds of guys

they told me if I could play the piano
they told me if I could play the guitar
I’d be ruined by the life that God hands out to the stars
they say God gave raccoons their masks
but they just use them to root through the trash
they told me how maybe I’ll better off if
God just leaves things as they already are

I tell them I am not a mole, though
I’m no raccoon and I’m sure no bird
I say how God left my soul defenseless
except for these shaking hands and this
ragg-ed carpet-bag full up with other folks’ words
but I mean, really, who are these mysterious “they”
to tell me who I am deep down inside me anyway?

you know sometimes it seems like all of my dreams
are pictures of Coney Island I saw watching ballgames
on my parents’ cable teevee when I was a little kid
I’ll admit, Lord, Lordy Lord, Lordy no
I never got to join the freak-show
but I rode the Cyclone once, yes, I really did

they all say that God has got His Plans
they’ll say that it’s all in God’s hands and
they all say God, God, God God, God God, God

and they say how they’re God’s biggest fans
write His fan-fiction, they’re God’s biggest Stans
and they all tell me that I’m the one that’s odd

they say that God is in the gutter mud
they say that God is in the silent sands
they say how they can speak for God
all I can really hear is theirs buts and their ands
and God and God and God
but God but God but God
who are they to tell you anyway
send them postcards from New York City
if you yet manage to beat their assumed odds

Last updated January 28, 2018