Peter J Ross wrote:
>Will Dockery wrote:
> > I'm "hearing" Ray Davies, and later, Andy Partridge here,
>
> Anti-psychotic medication may help you.
Has it worked for you any yet?
The Ride (Combat Zone) by Will Dockery (words) & Dennis Beck (music):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lZ3VAmNTWc
The Ride (Combat Zone)
Driving through the combat zone
a rasta steps out,
sort of calling my name ---
a reasonable approximation.
Variation of my street name I guess.
Said he could take me to see Raine,
apparently the rastas have her locked up in a house
somewhere in the combat zone.
Girl of these woods and chemicals,
we labor for the black pigs of poetry,
for the bone gods of the sea,
for the secret rose you keep for me,
under the skirts of printed sunflowers.
He wanted money for his information,
at which point I was to park and walk.
It seemed very sinister, the thought of Raine held prisoner
But he smoothed it over fairly often.
said I could come back later,
when the bad vibes wore down.
There is a hollering and someone has a
dog that barks,
your eyes have that recently crying look,
and your hair seems as soft
and your smell as sweet, as before,
as that last time you came to my door,
in a skirt of printed sunflowers
Rasta gets crazy on me in the car,
wanting five dollars, two bucks, anything.
I give him nothing, just smoke and drink.
He's got an ice pick in his hand,
makes it sound like he's got a gun.
I'd already heard Raine was in jail
but I didn't expect a rasta jail.
But it has been seen that you look
straight through,
I fear that you are already gone,
that night you tried to die in my arms,
is something that I will not forget
or make sense of,
you and your skirt of printed sunflowers.
The image crossed my mind how it might feel
if he jabbed that icepick into me
a couple of times or more.
Just curious to see if he'd do it or not,
could I stop him, I could tell I didn't know.
Methinks that you no longer see nothing,
and God knows what kind
of love is this,
you told me that you never stopped loving me,
but you could never return to me,
in your skirt of sunflowers
in your skirt of sunflowers
I just stare and talk about money.
I bummed a cigarette from him.
I told him I'd be in touch about Raine.
He said, "Man, you crazy.", and walked off.
I went back home to think.
Girl of these woods and chemicals,
we labor for the black pigs of poetry,
for the bone gods of the sea,
for the secret rose you keep for me,
under the skirt of printed sunflowers.
-Will Dockery
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