The ballad of St Michael Archangel among the beggars of England

One day, I promise I'll sum up the feeling that's resounded throughout my youth; it has no name but it's still a single emotion. If I get some cure for my manic depression soon, this song may be one of my last attempts. Being in love kind of mixes up the

The doctors disparage my thoughts of a marriage

To a girl with a whiteskin tattoo

And the taxis won’t carry my frame

To the out of town zoo

And the people I love are lost to me

Reading the cost of a train and a pillpacket too

And the newspaper said it can’t load my available friends

They’ve all gone away in the search of a world without end

But Christ stole my thunder when he talked of the plunder

Of a museum showing paintings of dust

But I’ll make th’excelsior soon; it’s a matter of trust

 

The suite where I’m staying is now bored of paying

My way, though I’m hoping for benefits

And the suitors of truth they wear looks so aloof

When they’ll wear any shirt that’s going to fit

And the rain’s now caressing and looks undepressing

But my mind’s doing Roman salutes

And I’m cutting my most inner-thoughts

With knives designed for fruit

 

Well they never told me that love is a lie

‘Till I reached seventeen and humanity ran dry

And the holders of wisdom gave way

To puppets of flesh

And the thoughts I was having were all about giving my soul

If my mind can stay fresh

 

But I now need redemption and cool education

Will take away my dreams of truth

And I never saved a soul, never gave my opinion

I’m leaning toward the way of mad provocation

And to the unbelievers I’ll show a proof

And burn away all the prophets of hell

With my profitable promise of sooth.

 

There’s no-one will take her away in my mind

There’s no-one will call her a woman

I’ll save her from sin if it means catching a bus

And ending up broken and blue

But I wouldn’t ask it of you.

Author's Note

Try and think of this as a song without music, I'm writing lyrics for a broken man; myself.