Charlie Snow

Charlie Snow was a boy in a country full of hoax and deception and what's more is affection for people and reflection of a place in construction under bridges destruction.

Charlie will never learn.

So he wakes in a dust,
Full of long forgotten lust,
Eating up all the rust,
Iron termites,
So it was,
He made a living out of clay,
And called it his everyday,
His mailman wouldn't look,
What intimacy would've took,
From his normal,
Monotonous being.

Kisses his ego,
Kisses his mom,
Walks for a while,
To the mind of his slum,
And he hopes for no better condition.

There was a jogger for a coy,
And her little boy named Tom,
They looked happy together,
Running from what Charlie will never bother.

Charlie stepped in grass,
With trees and their eyes,
A Pocahontas dilemma,
Of segregation and connive,
I wish I was there when the bomb shook the world,
Probably flatten desires and blow up little girls.

There's that flaming Jesus shaking everybody's hand,
There's that old lady with her gun and revolver,
64% paralyzed that's what she's always said,
But I think she just said that so her dogs wouldn't drop dead.

Charlie saw an angel,
Speedo and tights,
Listening to "All Tomorrow's Parties",
Couldn't fit in a halo,
So she took up a band,
Learned the guitar,
Oh boy, Charlie wasn't the man.

See the TV going all 'tonight's show',
As he called up a cab,
How he wished for a father,
And all he got was a dad.

Oh Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,
It's a Caribbean Industrial Nightmare since the day Mick took up the sword,
Guess you just had to be somewhere else eating dinner,
Charlie how you've missed a lot.

The moon isn't naked,
For the sake of my pachyderm,
Chasing chasing chasing,
Drains to the left and houses to the right,
God I wish I was awake last night.
But God never bothered about his well being,
Godfrey wouldn't mind for a house and a ceiling.

Charlie worked up a fight in the factory,
He greased up the wrong gear,
And coz a slight outre with a French man in a baseball cap,
Cut off his fingers with the auto-guillotine,
He killed the president,
Of trigonometric harmony and schematic delight.

I guess you wanna die now, Charlie?

Charlie?

You still haven't told me why it doesn't snow around here, papi

I wish I could son.
But Charlie never told me.

What about that girl he loved?

What girl?

Mrs Layne?

CHARLIE! WAKE UP! YOUR PUDDING'S GETTING COLD!

Yes. I know who I think I am. Death is a blue-collar serial sitcom.

It'll be like meeting an old friend.

And of all the women and men who's been in my bedroom, it's time to lock that door so that memory is literally confined to the ones who care about me.

The girl with a knack for the rooftops of her dreams.
The girl who'd rather die for the sake of pristine.
The girl who wants her time alone.
But never knew what to ask.
Snow. Will you.

Please.

Stop stealing my underwear.