And now the dress is hung, the ticket pawned
The factor max that proved the fact is melted down
Woven on the edging of my pillow
And my brother lays upon the rocks
He could be dead, he could be not
He could be you
He's chameleon, comedian, Corinthian and caricature
Shooting up pie in the sky
Bewlay brothers
In the feeble, in the bad
Bewlay brothers
In the blessed and cold
In the crutch hungry dark
Was where we flayed our mark
Oh and we were gone
Kings of Oblivion
We were so turned on
In the mind warp pavilion
The Bewlay Brothers, verse four or thereabouts. I probably don't need to hear anymore. Every so often I feel a little unsure, about the state of the world and the health of the poor and I return to some summer place where questions were never asked and truths were never faced. So what is this larking about all about? Where is the gravity and the fat, where is the dog and who hid the cat?
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