The Fall of the Old Boy Scout

…mere mania

Come gimme shelter From glass beads of sweat and swelter Needing mother’s little helper Midst English gardens and midday suns A dead dog’s helter-skelter I peruse a pensive course Showing little remorse But make escape the flagrant source It’s way up high Like Lucy in the sky Faking diamonds in my eyes Just to melt upon the breeze It’s one hundred eighty degrees Newspaper taxis have gone to grieve Set ablaze the Pyrenees So good luck with all those trees Better to be a walrus on the seven seas I can’t breathe Cook eggs now on the streets Marshmallow pies at eve I’m seeing stars Need not go far I’m sticking to all that black gooey tar Rusting strings on old guitars As sweat pours from old scars Babies are bawling Governments forestalling Double-talk has become endless gnawing Prophets of doom have won their calling And so, God love ‘em Only a genius could’ve seen that comin’ Not being woke, no longer a joke Turn up the AC before you go broke And on the way out Let’s twist and shout…be prepared For the fall of the old boy scout