The Juggler
Posted: Mon Aug 29, 2016 11:54 pm
‘The Juggler’ © 2008 Glenny
It’s hard to be a hermit when the public owns your voice
if you’re gunna be a ‘lebrity you gotta make the choice
to be devious, committed, no more waving, saying ‘Hi’
and never tell the blighters where you live or they’ll ‘drop by’.
You have to wear disguises just to make it safe through Coles
or you’re bound to be accosted by your ‘fans’…(God bless their souls)
where they hold you hostage in the yoghurt section while they spray
a masterpiece their little Johnny wrote ‘that very day’.
The sheila in the doctor’s office knows your every vice
and bellows them across the waiting room which isn’t nice,
particularly if you’re there to get your penicillin
and half your romance prospects bolt, no longer keen or willin’
The paparazzi snap you when you’re trying to reverse
a bloody trailer down a lane & stuffing it…what’s worse
is the blighters all misquote you & your enemies accrue
for something that you never said that lands you in the poo.
You dare not go to church each week to make your sad confession
or they land across the front page of ‘The Times’ in bold impression;
you just can’t keep a secret (that’s assuming that you find
one chance to get in mischief of the naughty sorta kind.)
Oh, your life becomes a soapie where you play the leading role
while you dream of being ‘nonymous & living in a hole
that’s nice & still & dark & safe (perhaps beside a lake…
or bloody miles from nowhere in the scrub, for goodness sake?)
Yeah, that ‘bloody miles from nowhere’ is the place you need to be
when you want to be a writer more than grand celebrity,
but the deal is self perpetuating, round & round you go
all because you have to eat sometimes & pay the piper’s dough.
But when the night time settles on your tired & weary mind,
you gaze into the diamond sky & know you’ll never find
a sanctuary better than the peace within your breast
reflected all around you in your ‘miles from nowhere’ nest.
It’s hard to be a hermit when the public owns your voice
if you’re gunna be a ‘lebrity you gotta make the choice
to be devious, committed, no more waving, saying ‘Hi’
and never tell the blighters where you live or they’ll ‘drop by’.
You have to wear disguises just to make it safe through Coles
or you’re bound to be accosted by your ‘fans’…(God bless their souls)
where they hold you hostage in the yoghurt section while they spray
a masterpiece their little Johnny wrote ‘that very day’.
The sheila in the doctor’s office knows your every vice
and bellows them across the waiting room which isn’t nice,
particularly if you’re there to get your penicillin
and half your romance prospects bolt, no longer keen or willin’
The paparazzi snap you when you’re trying to reverse
a bloody trailer down a lane & stuffing it…what’s worse
is the blighters all misquote you & your enemies accrue
for something that you never said that lands you in the poo.
You dare not go to church each week to make your sad confession
or they land across the front page of ‘The Times’ in bold impression;
you just can’t keep a secret (that’s assuming that you find
one chance to get in mischief of the naughty sorta kind.)
Oh, your life becomes a soapie where you play the leading role
while you dream of being ‘nonymous & living in a hole
that’s nice & still & dark & safe (perhaps beside a lake…
or bloody miles from nowhere in the scrub, for goodness sake?)
Yeah, that ‘bloody miles from nowhere’ is the place you need to be
when you want to be a writer more than grand celebrity,
but the deal is self perpetuating, round & round you go
all because you have to eat sometimes & pay the piper’s dough.
But when the night time settles on your tired & weary mind,
you gaze into the diamond sky & know you’ll never find
a sanctuary better than the peace within your breast
reflected all around you in your ‘miles from nowhere’ nest.
)