I sit atop a tiny isle.
These rags I wear were never in style.
Impiety ‘s not my only sin.
I took no tonic with my gin.
I never called, hated the phone.
A table for two, yet dined alone,

and now I do once more.

Panic is danced into madness
by every soul that fears.
Bombing empty toy factories,
storming the field of tears.

And a million miles down that line,
you’re back where you began.
In the grip of some fresh mania
of leaders tall and tan.

Let me sleep upon that madness.
It won’t survive my dreams.
Your harbinger of holocaust
is daintier than he seems.

You knew me in the time of caves.
When gods and spirits nightly raved
and ghosts sat seaside watching waves,
as men and oxen were enslaved

in stories they could not fathom.