Gary B├ęgin

More To It Than That






Give me the microphone and relax.
I too can make a fool of myself.
Give me the banjo and allow me to strum.
I too am a worthless hobo bum.
When the aged hippies come alive,
And the grateful dead's hand jive,
And the casey jones' train appears,
Then to die is nobody's fear.
Here is the wican's tune aplenty:
Come christmas give me gifts,
Come easter hush your mouth.
What about the moon and stars?
What about Pluto and mars?
The sun is shining gods regardless.
The candles burn and incenses smell.
The prayer shawl hangs on the wall.
There's always more to it than that.
To that and a whole chapter more.
Close the book on any page,
But remember the black velvet rage.
Remember the non-bogarted joint.
Keep sublime the chimes for the fort.
Have another schnapps or jager man,
Pray for the girls in the boy's band.
More to it than that?
That and a whole lot more.
When the doorbell rings,
Slap the silly blings
From around your neck and wrist
Give elmo a fire in the belly
Make love the smelly smelly.
Absorb and pacify and quench
Your thirst, now dive dive dive.
Oh diva with wanderlust,
Oh Johnny on the spot with chili and frost.
Here climb the cats on the dining room table.
There go the dogs of war and the disabled.
Dance the merry one legged hop.
Prance the peg leg and merry go flop.
I still want to love you, though biyatch you may be.
I the forever peckered dude, I that may be.
Gather now about the camp fire and sing.
Sing even though the voice has been ripped ashred
By cancer and by smoke.
Torn asunder by the clowns and their jokes.
There's always more to it than that.
There's always more to it jack.
Jack the be-nimble and jack the be-quick.

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