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heavens, |
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the earth was covered up in grenadine |
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the day he died |
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he stood up laughing at the edge of the rack |
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with a barrel |
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over his head |
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well, I guess the trampoline would bring him higher |
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his hands were always reaching to the sky |
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now the wretched tones |
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of smashing bones |
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took the catcher in the rye |
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now memories |
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of sweaty rubber pants and Tirolean |
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haunts the man |
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who cracked the decades with the edge of his palms |
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in the face of |
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the queen of the prom |
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and now his boys are getting bigger |
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and the apples never fall far from the tree |
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in a fistful of aggression |
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a mouth-full of debris |
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now; Mr. Slim skipped the gym |
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he broke a fingers and a rib, but they told him that he's gonna be fine |
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he didn't care |
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for cannonball, |
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and for football he was always too clumsy but he liked to fall |
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yesterday's |
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superstars |
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on trampoline |
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with turtlenecks |
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came marching through the secondary school |
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and by the pool |
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they found his favourite Freudian slippers |
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and a catcher in the rye. |
