I remember thinking once,
“I’d never want him to produce my music.”
Fool that I was.
I didn’t realize then
that the sound I had mistaken for
messiness and chaos
was actually the character of mankind
caught on tape.
It was,
truly,
anthropology at its finest.
You entangled each one of us
in the snare of your guitar strings;
furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,
and then released us back
into the wild with a song.
You were an incomparable teacher;
you taught us to Gett Off,
what doves sound like when they cry,
and that not everything that glitters is Gold.
At times,
it seemed as though you even
controlled the weather-
it rained Purple;
it snowed in April.
A lesser man would have agonized over
such a petite figure;
but you strutted yours.
Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.
You masqueraded as a sex object,
and no one ever realized you were
preaching the Gospel while you did it.
You told us of a Park
where life won’t be so bad;
it was in our hearts,
but now we can tour the frickin’ place
for a hundred bucks.
I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,
isn’t it?
“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 