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Black Record
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by Mike Semrad
Spin old black record so I can see light
To walk through the crystals in the deep of the night
Like a german I march to through a city in pain
To catch my way home on the west Lincoln train
A scream from the hollow that tickle the tracks
The pier of the gypsy in a Hollywood plague
The Voice in the west is a pawn in the game
Of chaos and math and exercised fame
Pay the price to let the bell toll
The people don’t work, for it strengthens there soul
I’ll give you some gold to see what you do
Let your voice spray til the wicked is through
Oh on top of the bricks and the mud
I see my way down to the streets filled with blood
As God as my witness he lowers his face
To pull out a smoke from his cigarette case
His eyes lift with trouble, with a shimmering spin
He peers through the lights at the City of Sin
$300 hundred dollars for a triangle glance
while a talented mother just waits for her chance
July, 2007
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Mike Semrad
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