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Beau
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Fly Upon the Wall
The mists are always swirling
Where the castle wall is cold.
The night is not for dreamers
Or for schemers, or the old,
For they cannot escape from
The fog, the clinging fold –
The fog, the clinging fold –
The fog, the clinging fold across The Wall.
In fear or frustration
All the discontented crews
Gather in the glowing
Of the slowly-burning fuse.
And there are no surprises
Finding they themselves accused –
Finding they themselves accused –
Finding they themselves accused before The Wall.
Unmatched in unimportance
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All your neon towers rise,
Crackling with images
And Estee Lauder lies.
The paradox is heightened
For you need not advertise –
You need not advertise –
There is no need to advertise upon The Wall.
They may take up all my papers,
They may look into my eyes,
But they cannot pierce my makeup
Or break up my disguise.
They check me with their mirrors,
They mate me with their flies.
They mate me with their flies –
They mate me with their flies upon The Wall.
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