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When you are sick of sweetness come to me.
When summer fruits have curdled in your gut,
when peaches bore you, and you crave the cutting
acid that can sear complacency -
When velvet skin, and plums, and palmy light
have run their course with you, and when you thirst
no more for sickly nectar but for bursting
blood, and when your beachy sun’s too bright -
When all terrain’s familiar, flat and slight
and you recall how shadows too can thrill
and sudden, quick-eyed creatures of the night
stir in an inner field you swore was still -
Seek out the blade to cut you into life.
I am the loving blade. I am the knife.
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Beneath the weight of idleness
Beneath the weight of idleness, the flat stone
that presses dully on the teeming earth,
where worms eat what life’s lost, and where the birth
of life is sparked, small, fervent and alone,
a movement barely felt - a chilly coil
of muscle circling muscle, a blind pulse
of reptile - stirs. Forgotten things convulse
just inches from the surface of the soil.
The stone lies still, The stone lies still.
The static plate absorbs the heat of sun, and cool of night.
The garden grasses bow. The blossom's bright
with promise of benignity of fate.
Under the sleeping surface of the slate
beautiful serpents writhe and twist and wait.
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Thought I'd begin by telling you something I oughta,
Something - for better or worse - that I share with Cole Porter
His genius it ain't, or his glittering tragical life.
It isn't his penchant for loving both men... and a wife.
I've said it before and I'll tediously say it again:
Though once I adored it, now I get no kick from champagne.
Oh! Champagne was swell in a fluted glass
For sayin 'What the hell' with a little class
Til that Jezebel bit me in the ass
Now Baby you're the bubbly for me
Whiskey I adored, comfort in a kilt
Vigour was restored, ne'er a drop was spilt
Then I just got bored and the floor would tilt
Now Goddamn, you're the wee dram for me
Boozing is a beatific bliss until it turns into a full-time occupation
Then you better give the glass a kiss goodbye and cultivate a new flirtation
Bordeaux was treat, rosy and divine
Dry or semi-sweet, naughty but benign
Till I found defeat at the finish line
But I can bear it - you're my fav'rite claret.
Baby you're the cocktail for me.
Boozing is a beatific bliss until it turns into a full-time occupation
Then you better give the glass a kiss goodbye and cultivate a new flirtation
Vodka in your juice on the morning train.
Resolution's useless the old refrain.
Till I found defeat at the finish line.
Baby you're the cocktail, my 'been around the block' tale.
Baby you're the cocktail for me, for me, for me.
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4. |
Perry Street
02:00
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5. |
Sweet Tomorrow
03:38
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Hear that voice calling from tomorrow,
Feel that song crying to be sung
See that end to worry and sorrow
Taste that sweet tomorow on your tongue
I was born a sentimental sinner
I was always lookin for a chance
I may be an sorrowful beginner
But I got nat'ral talent for the dance
Done my time a-workin and a-weepin
Lost my way in the weary war
Heaven, carry me to a new morning
Carry me to that beautiful shore
For the battle was never meant for fighting
The glory never meant to be
In tomorrow's sweetness I'm delighting
In the distant gleaming I can see
No longer terrified and tender
No more my spirit frayed and torn
For my victory lay in my surrender
In surrender my burden shall be born
Done my time a-workin and a-weepin
Lost my way in the weary war
Heaven, carry me to a new morning
Carry me to that beautiful shore
Hear that voice calling from tomorrow,
Feel that song crying to be sung
See that end to worry and sorrow
Taste that sweet tomorrow ...
Taste that sweet tomorrow...
Taste that sweet tomorow on your tongue.
© 2016 Valerie Cutko & Michael Roulston. All rights reserved.
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6. |
Michael Roulston UK
Michael Roulston is a composer, accompanist, arranger and actor-musician with a passion for cabaret.
www.michaelroulston.co.uk
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