Wringle wrangle the wig comes off
Underneath lies gray contradiction
The amp blasts out such persistent thought
The wig lays in a heap on the stone cold floor
frozen in scattered light.
Morning would come soon, but now
it was nightâ€™s turn to show off.
Shake shake, the hand waves off the echoes.
Foreign languages speak out at the bass player
Sound keeps toying with mischief
Theyâ€™re friends now.
Buddied up, much trouble will soon blossom.
Off the horizon, the sun begins to wake up
still drowsy with a wonderful
deep slumber quilt.
What does the sun dream about?
Deep rays bounce off bubbly clouds
Perhaps a thunderstorm on this sunny morning, maybe just light rain.
Wigs will rain down
Covering the gray contradictions
A cloud grows thumping into a bass drum
Jingle jangle the droplets drip on the bridge
Nothing under the bridge, nothing to contradict
Just a bluesy old tune of
An old man playing his
bluesy old guitar.
The sun rises, bringing
blues a second chance