Black-Hand SpadeOld green sedan
Rusting away in the tall grass.
Far from prying eyes she was
Took a lifetime to find her.
Saddle-tramp leather chaps
Hang from a rawboned frame.
Comfortable with smiling
Peers out beneath the sun.
Skeletons are friends we never found
Dreaming of lush riverbanks
So far from home.
Dust on the horizon
Blacksmith's heart slicing the hardpan.
A tremble, a tremble
Gallops that engine
(She looked at me across the veranda
Sitting there at Scarsdale Plantation
While the ladies played croquet on the south lawn
And she smiled...)
So long ago.
Collins and I
We ride out under that western sky
Rolling 'tween the purple sage and tumbleweeds
No one to ask us why
You purr for me.
Hula girl dancing on the dash
Beckons sweetly...promising everything.
Sundown in the distance falling
Radio is singing lullabies
Of lost hearts and moonlit gardens...
And Collins just smiles that reaper's grin
Men call him Black-Hand Spade.
Winter's FarewellOnce upon a time, long ago...
On a cold December day,
King Winter found an old steam-powered robot,
Deep in the Dark Glass Forest,
At the edge of the known world.
Engineering ran through his veins
Like steel wool on fire...
A fascination with power.
"Where giants once stood," he said,
When night fell behind Engine Room 2.
"Lasting memories burn," replied Mr. Purplestone,
"A devil in every flame."
His obsession revealed; full steam ahead,
Between clouds and stars.
"The Architect's Garden is my dream place;
Everyone quietly goes there to receive
A feeling like no other."
The human and the machine, the mechanics of love,
In one word...fluid.
Prominent men, Mr. Sparkle, Mr. Vandemar and Mr. Croup;
The day they arrived, all was golden.
"You've lost your mind..."
"Life on standby..."
"Excuse me mister, who am I to you?
I have been distant...among the dead.
Make no mistake gentleman...
Angels don't play this harp."
"Escaping from reality, is all that we see."
Dolan's RestDolan's Rest
Is the name of yonder nest,
Otherwise known as Blackpool Tower.
Legends tell it was nearly finished,
By a storm of deadly pow'r.
Solomon Gray saw Dolan McNeill
A' ways up top a' the blasted tower, polishing the brass.
"Get ye down, ye bloomin' oaf! Or ye's goin' t' ride the handsome!"
Well, Dolan was deafer'n a post, so he was. Nor did he listen too well.
So seeing Solomon waving his arms, Dolan told him to go to hell.
Hmmph! thought Solomon, man thinks he's got bark;
We'll see how hard he is, come dark o' the clock!
Well, old Dolan kept a polish'n,
Just a wipin' with his rag.
Tis' better'n listening to my wife nag and nag,
Thought he with a wink and a hearty laugh.
Soon the clouds came racing in,
Like the devil himself was a' whippin' and beatin' 'em.
Yet that stubbr'n old man
Never thought of retreat'n.
The shrieking winds soon tore off his coat,
Though nary a one could put out his smoke.
Ol' Dolan felt too tired to climb,
So he rode a tidal bore
Down like a slide.
The Minister of FunHe comes in all his jangles
Bingles and bangles, too.
His face is beaming merry,
He's the Minister of Fun.
Look not upon the 'morrow,
Nor dwell on yesterday.
Think only of the moment,
You're better off, he'll say.
I'll shim, sham and boozle you;
Mayhap a song or two.
And if the laughter confuuzles you,
Take heed, the night is young.
From olden kings in icy north-lands,
To salty Captains on the Spanish Main,
He's the courtier without a name,
Yet every name is on his tongue.
Who is this mischievous fellow?
He's the Minister of Fun.
Once I spied his long-about
Sitting in the rain.
Two black chargers stood in their traces,
Ready to run again.
A light shone from the port-side window
Perhaps he was preparing to withdraw,
As I peered from out a copse of trees,
A voice called out to me.
"Come near me, boy, if you dare."
"I shan't be here for long, nor do I readily care."
"These towns are dreary lonesome, and so am I alone."
I approached the ornate carriage,
Carved in 19th century splendor.