this a new poem by Waits included in the booklet of the CD reissues of the Pogues 'Rum, Sodomy and the Lash' and 'Hell's Ditch,' albums. They are out in the UK, but not the US yet. Lines between ** are in bold. Apologies if you've already got this somewhere. Cheers
The Pogues
Their music is like *the brandy of the damned* Pogue Mahone they are the last pure hearts from Dickens, Joyce, Dylan Thomas to Christy Moore like Red Diamonds *Pirates*, full of malarky *they're little giants* they're Bill Sykes They are all orphans *and* they are leaving on the 2:10 train with no *ticket* Rapscallion, angry, weeping *passed out songs, songs* that seem to be born effortlessly, or not born but found on top of an old wood stove like a Bowler hat and the Pogues know *where the little people go* and they follow them they're as old as treasure island songs that we all should carry I learnt'em and sung'em and changed'em and passed'em on *down the wild blue road* as Shane MacGowan and the Pogues warm their hands on a fire made from chopsticks and a horse pulls a milk wagon up the steep, wet cobblestone *street and stumbles* to his knees, bloodying them as a man no bigger than my thumb dances in the broken glass and jumps rope with a shoe lace the song he sings *is one by the Pogues*
2 comments:
this a new poem by Waits included in the booklet of the CD reissues of the Pogues 'Rum, Sodomy and the Lash' and 'Hell's Ditch,' albums. They are out in the UK, but not the US yet. Lines between ** are in bold. Apologies if you've already got this somewhere. Cheers
The Pogues
Their music is like
*the brandy of the damned*
Pogue Mahone
they are the last
pure hearts
from Dickens, Joyce, Dylan Thomas
to Christy Moore
like Red Diamonds
*Pirates*, full of malarky
*they're little giants*
they're Bill Sykes
They are all orphans
*and* they are leaving
on the 2:10 train
with no *ticket*
Rapscallion, angry, weeping
*passed out songs, songs*
that seem to be born
effortlessly, or
not born but found
on top of an old wood stove
like a Bowler hat
and the Pogues know
*where the little people go*
and they follow them
they're as old as treasure island
songs that we all should carry
I learnt'em and sung'em
and changed'em
and passed'em on
*down the wild blue road*
as Shane MacGowan and the Pogues
warm their hands
on a fire
made from chopsticks
and a horse pulls a milk wagon
up the steep, wet cobblestone
*street and stumbles*
to his knees, bloodying them
as a man
no bigger than my thumb
dances in the broken glass
and jumps rope with a shoe lace
the song he sings
*is one by the Pogues*
Tom Waits
California, March 2004
No need for that, you already had Blogger feed:
http://eyeballkid.blogspot.com/atom.xml
It has been working for months, that's how I read this! ;-)
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