lord of the buskers
sweet god in your
high grace teach
me the jingle that
makes men jingle
teach me the tune
that makes nickels
wiggle and sing in
the hands of all the
weary souls in the
world in dr gener
osity's pocket in
the waxy grip of
madame tussaud
o lord of buskers
let the money flow
let the coin fall out
where ever it may
so long as it rolls in
my direction through
every damn hole in
the goddamn world
hole in the bucket
hole in the cloth
hole in the steeple
hole in the skullbone
of enormous heaven
o let it roll into my hand
dear lord of the diminished e
let it roll across my teeth
my tongue my lungs my lips
with vowels like cantaloupes
consonants like spikes like a crown
of thorns hang me on your tree of money
let my throat be filled with middle c's
teach me the sweet notes for
office women who stroll
through city hall park
at lunch with sweet
voices of their own
rolling hips of their own
and lipstick for the office men
in their incredible ill-fitting
suits o lord of buskers
not so much for me
not for me
but for your song
dear lord of vagrants
innocent student of the world
with your magician cap with your
sudden spring and unexpected music
borne into the hearts of women
and men grant me the back beat and the gentle hook
get off your ass, o lord of the mellifluous tune
pluck me a chord six string god
of the strummed guitar
teach me a stray dog blues
a yawp a gypsy warble
oh god of easy smiles
and sweet park benches
send away the cop
on his big ass horse
send me the rich ones
pockets full of expendible
folding money
let's get parisian
about it, you and i!
i mean to hell with eliot
and ezra pound
let my voice be heard
let it rise up like jeremiah
like aznavour of frances villons!
i am your merchant ship
i am your instrument
let your voice rise up
in me and roll on easy
over the high seas
to hong kong
to splitsville
to valparaiso