Do I look like the sort of man
that worry’s about you selecting me
I could always select myself
roll up some green sleeves
read out aloud a cracker joke
season my greetings
with a pinch of salt
look I spilt the salt
And I wear a tartan cloak.
A question of consciousness
a red drawn back cloak
strange place to hold confession
in a reclining Sudan
Room for one more or is it twos a crowd
do have licences to film in this part of town.
Don’t worry about me I’m new to this town
but hound goes wherever I go
he’s great at telling jokes you see
we found we from the same ancestral tree
And the timbre of our voices he has a cousin
called Rowlf who taught me the piano
and how to interpret dreams.