Monday, November 17, 2008

Living Rooms May Up and Die / Toronto Star


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


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

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