For Simon

Listen! The furies are singing your fate
they rhyme as they herald
they rhyme as they read mortality’s expiration date
trollops, the lot of them
all doxies and harlots
the Heathers the Lindas
the Lilies and Charlottes
they lure you in – they have no other function
in their diaphanous robes they sing these songs of seduction
leaving you, a man of freedom and choice
no alternative but to follow their voice
you took all their clothes off with an eager, trembling hand
and once you too were naked and at their command
they dressed you up real nice in a suit, tie and button down shirt
but over your coffin they shoveled cement instead of dirt
i know the hardest part is simply not knowing
so i’ll tell you this much: it’s hot where you’ve been and it’s cold where you’re going
the devil will be looking a mite geriatric
under layers and layers of cotton, satin and cambric
you’ll say ‘hell must be a great place for getting old’
his highness will profess no happiness: ‘no matter how high i turn up the thermostat i’ve always been cold
my boy you may want to curse your day but as you unleash your tongue
you will not unseal our order to keep you forever young’

How ugly is this beautiful day and how fiercely cruel the gentle sun
four elements gun me down with their guns set to stun
the preachers stutter and spew
they blow their silly elk horn in hope of converting a fool or a few
and only the cries of one seeking his baby boy come through
and quickly dissolve into the common noise
entropy will never allow us to undo

We should go home now, it’s getting late. Listen! The furies are already singing your fate.