Sziámi - Salamander Homepages

the salamander's year it is
let's study some alchemy
crash-course or distant learning
to give the world its secrecy

was on my way home late last night
but things don't end as they begin
i came accross a bar, and bars
are flypaper, not trampoline

he who flies high on coffee sees
maps instead of human streets
but seven street-lords gather here
to wash their souls out like old sheets

a jungle in the jungle's midst
that's where they manage to doss down
it's pitch dark till the first ray blasts them
and in white light they choke and drown

blind fingers offer homeless pages
of homespun rags for us to buy
though numb their senses, dumb the voice
that keeps on screaming "where am i?"

he who is of woman born will
scream and bawl each time he wakes
there's little cause for him to rise
and greet the sun as the day breaks

"hope-page, homepage!" his chummy cry
seems a loud aggressive bark
some pretty suspicious types the flood
has swept together in the ark

and now he tries addresssing me and
how the hell do i refuse
when this ragamuffin keeps
insisting, he brought good news?

"tomorrow's homepage!" he keeps shouting
homepage, roam page as they roam
but they won't tell you where they stay
or where they may be paged at home

if i can make it home tonight
without an escort on the way
my drowsiness and stupor is
my own i'm rather glad to say

he who is of woman born
is doomed to disappointment, scorn
part-truth or truth itself, finds home
and hearth or sty or pleasure dome

creeps upstairs so as not to rouse
the dark bed of his sleeping spouse
and in order not to break her slamber
crushes flat the salamander