Now prop me up,
And brush these stains,
Man the stands and light these bulbs,
Set me loose,
And accentuate these wings,
Dull that spot, and watch these trims,
Show me out,
And toot my horns,
Caption me with some ancient song,
Dot on me,
My background dull,
When the night goes up, keep my neon on,
Keep me up,
Through rain, sun, and wind,
Label me the long-lived king,
It may be true that none of this is,
A desert dew? No, a fall’s white mist,
To you and me: a generic sad kid,
Sometimes psychotic, silly mystic,
Yeah, a trite side dish,
But not to them, never her, never they, or him,
‘Cause in this gallery of dreams, I can live this lie I wrote,
So prop me up,
Brush the stains, make my cheeks just glow,
And pick up the pace, it’s almost morn,
And damn!
The key exhibit’s on.
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