Tired
Of this masquerade
There’s a place on my face with whiskers
A moustache and a crafted charade
And on my lips, the whispers
I’m getting tired of this masquerade
I’m looking in a book to find the answer
There’s no mention of the subject on my mind
It’s about if life is accurate, not an illusion
I’ve checked the book of life, and nowhere could I find
Any talk about whether you and I are phantoms
And are visitations from another land
I poked you with my finger, and you appeared quite solid
I held up my fingers to the sky, the ones attached to my left hand
Then hand in hand, we dashed down to the seaside
Shed our clothes and jumped into the sea
We disappeared below the waves for several minutes|
Then surfaced, gasping for the entire world to see
You’d grown fins, and I’d developed a tail|
You had webbed feet and a slightly fishy smell
|There was a fishmonger who had a greedy grin who saw us
I said to you, this bloke can’t tell
If we’re large fish with legs walking from the ocean
And it may end up tonight on some fish fancier’s plate
|We both made a beeline for the car park
And slipped and slimed into the car before it was too late
I drove us out west to where the men only eat mutton
Then further on to a place where boys eat beef
Where women lock themselves inside their cupboards
To hide from rabid blokes who are far beyond belief
We parked behind the Pub at Warialda
A place known for mad bulls and deadly steers
There was yelling in the bar and loud expletives
Fuelled up by blokes pissed on grog and many beers.
We hid behind a gum tree with wide branches
And I wondered how far it was to reach the moon
And though as we we’re two fish on dry land
Looking in a book, we could maybe find a deep lagoon.
©
David Rudder
2022
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