Sunday, November 30, 2003
OK Soul-Man
So you say you have soul, Carmody?
Is it clenchable?
Could you palm it like
a glass of orange juice?
Do you need it to sing?
Does it burn
like hot sauce?
You present your soul
as the family pet,
sniffing under tables, in need of a wash.
I'll scrub your soul, Carmody,
with lemon juice and detox,
gospel and folk music.
Do you parade it on stage?
Do writers ride it
with awed tones and adverbs?
Did you find it in Europe,
on holiday? Or on the back of
an expiring coupon?
Are you worried it will desert you,
a misplaced rabbit's foot?
Batteries in the back of the drawer?
"My soul is a garden," you say.
"It needs watering and care,
attention and love."
Oh, shut up, Carmody.
Your flowers are cheap and
you've spilled your orange juice.
Is it clenchable?
Could you palm it like
a glass of orange juice?
Do you need it to sing?
Does it burn
like hot sauce?
You present your soul
as the family pet,
sniffing under tables, in need of a wash.
I'll scrub your soul, Carmody,
with lemon juice and detox,
gospel and folk music.
Do you parade it on stage?
Do writers ride it
with awed tones and adverbs?
Did you find it in Europe,
on holiday? Or on the back of
an expiring coupon?
Are you worried it will desert you,
a misplaced rabbit's foot?
Batteries in the back of the drawer?
"My soul is a garden," you say.
"It needs watering and care,
attention and love."
Oh, shut up, Carmody.
Your flowers are cheap and
you've spilled your orange juice.
