Straight On
Straight on, down a dead end street, down the throat of life's sweet dream
Get swallowed whole by innocence, get eaten by the folks you meet
Straight on like a taser dart, fifty thousand volts of art
Just like a chip inside your head, to tell you when to stop and start
Straight on to the ticking bomb, to big ideas, walk the dog
to myths like our democracy, vote Roland Rat and ditch the lot
Straight on like an open blade, an empty house, a rabbit snare
A window breaking in the night, the words you didn't want to hear,
a moon beam straight into the sun, a bullet from a careless gun
Straight on, with no fashion sense, no goodbyes and no last dance
a marble from a catapult, a quiverful of simple plans
Straight on into life's great wall, right through into life's great fall
Then down the chute and up the drain, recycled into something small
Straight on past the next surprise, seeing stars through starry eyes
and straight into a web of whys to find the lie that satisfies
Straight on like a corner shop, as deadly as a chopping block,
As friendly as a lion's den, a hooded crow, a lonely walk
The rail beneath the bullet train, the fragile sense within a brain
Straight on into history, skidding at you down the street
Tomorrow's just a yesterday we're never quite prepared to meet
Straight on like a butterfly searching for a net of lies
Across the fields of promises where every kind of vulture flies
Straight on through the great taboo; very soon there's nothing new
And all you hoped for hunts you down, to benefit the chosen few
Straight on through the universe, the blood of all our children spent
And riding on the broken wave we never think of what they've lent
They're in the wind and swinging free, as we dance round the gallows tree
Straight on like we're broken glass; we know how to fix the crash
We detonate good will for cash, because we think all things must pass
Straight on to the latest craze to empty us of emptiness
And knock the walls down, welcome in, spectators from the internet
Straight on like we know what's straight, something like the figure eight
We're tumbling dice, we're playing blind, down by the river on a date
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poem by Jim Hogg
Added by Poetry Lover
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