Script Of A Dead Poet

The coffee black and nearly cold

And i look back while hours pass by

A sheet of paper on the table torn to shreds

If you are able to solve the puzzle, try

It's my last script that you may hold

Or wipe away when the bar has closed

My last remains here in your hands and in the end

What i was writing for, i just don't know

Don't know



How many times to make youy understand

Or was it for the triumph of applauding hands

How many words i had to spell and all the stories i would tell

For the short and orgiastic turn when'd you say: well



What were they for, these black inked dreams

A guaranty that i was wise

And so called gods define an entrance for eternal life

Into a masterpeace of mine

All i wanted to be

Was extraordinary, extraordinary

And maybe i was wrong

How many people have i killed

With my suicidal songs





Janey diamond/1993




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