Peter Hammill What's It Worth
What's it worth to be safe? What's the way to be sane? I could throw myself at the garden on my hands, prune the lawn and mow the roses, but I never understand how to go to ber free; in the end I only want to be me. Winter days here are mine; still, no bites, what's my line? I could hurl myself to the bonfire with all nerve, clear the path and weed the dead leaves, but I really just don't have the nerve to be part if that scene is this just some kind of strange dream? Think I'll walk to the sleeple, where the people are so inquisite. I could make it to the corner store and buy a hoard of derivatives now. Which way now... climb or coast? Will my eggs ever poach? I could throw myself in the frying pan for the sake of my name; hit the road or smile hermetically, but it's really never quite the same; every time a subtle twist, I think I'll grab my plot and simply exist Or would that be a subtle slash at my wrists?