Living Rooms May Up and Die / Toronto Star

LIVING ROOMS MAY UP AND DIE

Living rooms may up and die mud-wrestling muddies up your eyes

Missiles may get a bit misguided but not me 'cause I've just decided

I'd walk through the thorns and thistles for a love without the bells and whistles 

Like ruffians in a diamond store I'll be the ocean on your shore

I'd die for you in my boots say it with twenty-one gun salutes 

I'd walk through the thorns and thistles for a love without the bells and whistles

Bells and whistles are good for wolves and bums

But I want a gal with a heart just like my dear old mum's

Dear John my John deer tractors stuck in hot pursuit my words run amok

Like a reluctant bunch of young recruits say 'Light my fire!' or I'll exit cute

I'd walk through the thorns and thistles for a love without the bells and whistles 

© 1997 Stefan des Lauriers

TORONTO STAR

I was sitting in the living room watching 

Green Achres on our Admiral black and white

And nearly knocked over the TV dinner tray

 As I jumped up saying “cool that’s out of sight”

So Dwight said we must “split now for a concert

 At Maple Leaf Gardens that starts at nine o’clock”

And then we’d catch a ride to Mosport Raceway

For a Canadian version of Woodstock

Well after the concert at the Gardens

We piled in a Buick Electra that fit six or seven

And in the back seat there was an addict

With tombstone eyes of glazed-up heaven 

They dropped us off before the entrance

Because our admission fee was lagging 

So as we headed to the rear of the venue 

And  got a ride in a hippie Volkswagen 

At the front of the van was a little boy 

With a frizzy red afro named Toronto Star 

Concentrating on some bugs and twigs

(But no dragonfly) in a mason jar

So I asked the little Star what grade he was in

And what subject he was studying in school

”What’s school?” his dad said, “He’s not enrolled

 — we’re not raising any fool”

In those days seat belts were optional

And the boy was kneeling as if blessed

I can still see his golden ears in the sunlight

Poking through hair a red funky mess

Well Dwight and I managed a way out 

And got in hopping an easy wire fence 

And headed to sound of Ten Years After 

About ten miles off in the distance

With the rising sun squirting through 

The mellow morning just like a tangerine

I thought of writing a poem just then

With the countryside being so serene

We saw folks skinny dipping in a pond

As if the world were their golden globe

And it all came down to that moment

If we had the nerve to jump in and disrobe

So I looked at Dwight — he looked at me 

The two of us were struck pretty dumb

We forsook the concert and headed home 

Catching a few rides by thumb

Well forty years have come and gone

Since we ditched the Canadian Woodcock

I can still see that kid on the front seat

Named “Star” no “Toronto” or it was “Spock”

Anyhow I often wonder how he’d turn out 

You know a child’s wanderlust cant’ be tamed

There’s one thing I never doubt—

The sun’s rays will always taste the same

The poem went: “The sun is rising like a tangerine

Squirting its juiced across the sky

Fields of green turn emerald green 

And leaves flame downs fluttering butterflies

May 15 2015