make hay

so long

so long

so long

so long

so long

my old friend died that way: the accumulation of time and the passing of days

though she dug in her heels--

drug her wheels in the clay--

she dotted her eyes;

crossed the teasels in her leaning dray

where buzzards make circles

a dozen in kettle

comittee & wake;

where wind made the dust

and sin made the snake

and mama made us

but what did i make?

and how was i to know

down in our old goldmine

where you were the king of the radio

and i was the keeper of hi-fi

and i was the queen of the rodeo

and you were the keeper of the lions;

and we were gored

and abased

and adored

and erased

all before our time?

it was before our time

so how was i to know?

how was i to know

while tune hums

and the hand strikes the gong

and all of us plough our row

and the notes run

out of measure and out of time and landing wrong?

the day is long

but not so long

my old friend died alone

save for the friends and family she had known

surrounding her bed

none of whom in that room

could with certainty have said

i've dotted my eyes