I carry a tennis racket
For PROTECTION
A baseball bat
Would be better
But I don't have one
I'm sure you could make
A class assumption
About my ownership of a tennis racket
Rather than a baseball bat
But you'd be dead wrong
It's a cheap tennis racket
It's not like it's a golf club
Or a set of skis
I'd prefer a baseball bat
But a gun might be better
No, maybe not
I don't want to kill anybody
Just bash them about a bit
If they come after me...
It has gotten around town,
Amongst the bums and winos of Skid Row,
the East Side Projects, Canal St and the Quarries,
That my head is full of wine
THE WINE OF THE GODS
My Skull
A Chalice
Containing the elixir of ever-lasting life
SO they chase after me
As I move through the ‘hoods
They are thirsty
Tongues drooling
Arms flaying
Hands grasping
Fortunately, they are not very fast
A life on the streets
Is not conducive
To a level of fitness capable of catching me
With my tennis racket
And head full of GOD WINE.
POSTSCRIPT TO ‘WINE HEAD’
The bums and winos of Skid Row, the East Side Projects,
Canal St and the Quarries,
Would like it to be known
That they are not chasing him
For his ‘Head Wine’,
Whatever that may be.
They want his backpack
They think it is full of money
And food
And drugs
And alcohol
There was a time
When a man appeared
With Gold Teeth
It might be a case
Of mistaken identity
Or Backpacks
Or Teeth
It’s gone on too long now
They can’t stop
Don’t let him have a baseball bat
Or a gun.
2ND POSTSCRIPT TO 'WINE HEAD'
The man called Shorty Jackson
Would like it to be known
That he is actually after the
‘Head Wine’
And he says he’ll get it too
One day.
WINE HEAD 2
What do you mean
‘Define my Terms?’
GOD is GOD
I’m not some bum or wino
From Skid Row
The East Side Projects
Canal St or the Quarries
‘Head Wine’ is just a term
It’s not actually wine
That’s Stupid
A mistake the bums and winos make
My brain is not a bag of wine
That you can squeeze
And drain like a goat skin
GOD is GOD
The infinite
The Soul
The intelligence
Bacchus was the good of wine
Wine as a symbol for life
Revelry
The eternal spirit in play
That is life ever-lasting.
You don’t think Bacchus
Spent time actually growing grapes
Pressing them
Or strolling the aisles of BEVMO
Fingering a corkscrew?
Don’t be dumb.
My head holds secrets
They know
They are right to chase me
I’ll get that baseball bat.
POSTSCRIPT TO ‘WINE HEAD 2’
The bums and winos of Skid Row,
The East Side Projects,
Canal St and the Quarries,
Strongly reject the notion
That they are chasing people
For ‘Head Wine’ or any such
Ill-defined
And frankly mad notions
About Gods and eternal youth
We want the money
We want the drugs
We want the food and the alcohol
Mostly the alcohol.
It’s all him
He comes looking for us
On Skid Row, the East Side Projects,
Canal St and the Quarries,
He lingers
Taunting
Waving his backpack at us
Like a fish lure
Obviously,
We are desperate
We wouldn’t be here otherwise
Frankly he bothers us
Ask yourself – ‘Why does he keep coming round here?’
Don’t give him a baseball bat
Please.
POSTSCRIPT TO THE POSTSCRIPT TO WINE HEAD 2
‘I really do want his Head Wine,’ says Shorty Jackson.
‘I have straws and I’ll push them in his eyes
Or crack open his skull with my lead pipe’.
POSTSCRIPT TO THE POSTSCRIPT TO THE POSTSCRIPT TO HEAD WINE 2
OK
Shorty Jackson
Does want the ‘Head Wine’
But he’s just one
He’s not representative
Of the rest of us bums and winos of the East Side Projects,
Canal St, the Quarries and Skid row.
He was in Nam
He sets fire to dogs
He needs help
Or at least taking away
Somewhere he can’t harm himself
Or Anyone else.
WINE HEAD 3
Who are you going to believe
THEM or ME?
I’m an upstanding member of
The community.
I have a bank account with Franklin County Mutual
I’m not some Bum or Wino
From Skid Row, the East Side Projects,
Canal St or the Quarries.
FUCK THIS SHIT
Like I want them chasing me
It’s an OUTRAGE!
THE IMPUDENCE!
I’m going to get a cleaver
And a gun.
LET THEM COME
POSTSCRIPT TO WINE HEAD 3
Who gave that nut a gun?
You see what happens?
Shorty Jackson was in Nam
He’s trained to Kill
Even though he only has one leg
You shouldn’t underestimate him
He’s given the bums and winos of Skid Row, the East Side Projects
Canal St and the Quarries a bad name
We’re glad the police got him
After he detached the man’s head
With cheese wire
Damn
How’d a fool like that get a gun?
He was fine with his tennis racket
It was enough,
It kept him running
The gun gave too much confidence
False confidence.
There was nothing in the backpack
A half bag of chips
An old newspaper
An apple
An empty juice box
The whole thing
Was sad and wrong and bad
To the core
Shorty Jackson says he’s going to
Live forever
But he’s not
He’s going to the chair.
