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Michael McGuire
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White Horse
A salesman riding on the devil's back,
Opens a black canvas bag full of little dolls of me, I tell him I don't want to buy one and he pulls a gun,
And says you can't buy them they're free,
When I look up again I'm not where I thought I was,
I look down at my feet and my shoes look like coffins,
Then I panic because I can't remember what money sounds like,
Then a sudden rain and the meaning softens.
There is some kind of electronic hum in my ear, The echo of an alarm clock; now is a place,
Events try to sell you the rumor of time,
Memory is deified; a b-movie version of grace,
I snap out of my reverie and pick up one of the little dolls,
It is wearing a black tee shirt that has a white horse on it,
Which is kind of strange because I'm wearing a white Jockey tee shirt,
You can't even but these things they're free; but I don't even want it.
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