With his benthic dreams and his Persian sand
He's the great forensic surgeon and
He's flying the Easter truck around the pond with the ringing bells.
And he says,
Hey watch your dorsal fin 'cause I can smell
Your operational scars and head antennas for gazelles.
You've travelled through time with your
Symposium of retractive warships, and now...
You're floating three inches above my choral reef.
And I can smell the whitecaps and the white caps on your teeth.
That totem pole around your neck suspends your disbelief
Just long enough to hear my choral reef.
I'm a home without security, I hide behind my purity
The match aflame but the candle stays unlit.
Like a baby without his thumb or marching feet without a drum
You know I've found the missing piece but it don't fit.
And what have you found but
Semi-crystalline shards of splintered heartwood, and now...
The bounty hunter's freeing all the renegades he's trapped
And the architects start over 'cause the bedrooms overlapped.
I'm happy in your presents or at least when they're unwrapped
But my choral reef's still trying, still trying to adapt
And all the Indians adore you 'cause you wrestled with their chief
And the boxer's stomach grumbles 'cause the locker smells like beef.
The merchant grabs himself and runs in circles screaming 'thief!'
But all sound is drowned around my choral reef.
No recording available
Copyright 1992 Zach London
