Ides of March

In a room the lord is standin’, the man he lies alone

He soon will show his hand in the game where his hand is known

He hears the strangest whisper, words so pure and real

He feels the ageless blister which no cure can heal

His money flowing freely, that smile begins to fade

His brow is showing steely, he feels somehow betrayed

The forgotten basement furnace visits him in dreams

A rotten lover’s pureness smolders with the beans

For he must cross the ocean to chase a Cherokee

His lust and loss of motion, encased in the debris

She remains a windy moment, developed and enlarged

How the lame old cockeyed showmen now fears the Ides of March

His eyes shot out by children, he holds a cheap guitar

The life it only filled him, the half that didn’t scar

In a room the lord is standin’, the man he lies alone

He soon will show his hand in the game where his hand is known