I’m two sixty-three fifty-four,
I’m not a copy,
I don’t dream
about
sheep.
I’m not prisoner number six,
I am a person;
Remember,
one’s the
boss.
I’m forty-two and fifty-four,
am I your answer?
Don’t panic –
just drink
up.
Attuned to two point three four two;
You’re my one constant
I won’t call
for eight
years.
I’m three point one four one five
Nine to forever;
On and on,
on I
go.
From a sleep I awake
With a terrible ache
In my head from events sometime past;
Where I am I can’t tell
As I’m blindfolded well,
But I seem to be travelling fast.
As I start to take stock
It then comes as a shock
When the shroud is removed from my eyes;
With my vision restored
I can see I’m on-board
A car travelling north, I surmise.
In the front sits a blonde
She’s a bombshell, beyond
Any creature I’ve seen in my days;
There’s a white-capped chauffeur
At the wheel next to her,
On the road he’s affixed his steel gaze.
In the back seat I’m pressed,
While I’m held at arrest,
By the toadies on each side of me;
The reality looms-
I’ve been kidnapped by shrooms!
How the hell did this happen to me?
[Cut to flashback]
I remember I’d been
A bit drunk and bit green
At a party in Hollywood Hills;
Amid starlets and harlots,
Producers with full guts,
She sparkled and gave me the thrills.
It all started so well
When I met Chanterelle,
She was charming and full of sweet smiles;
The whole evening seemed magic
But quickly turned tragic,
My downfall: her feminine wiles.
In my ear she had purred
So my mind quickly whirred,
More seductive than any wildcat;
While I’d hoped for a quickie
She’d slipped me a mickey-
I blacked out in five seconds flat.
[Fade to black]
[…]
[Fade in to present]
My anxiety grew
Cos I hadn’t a clue
What awaited me next in this scrape;
As their prisoner now,
I must work out quite how
To distract them and make my escape.
Yet there wasn’t the chance
For a plan to advance
As the car came to stop in a wood;
When they forced me straight out
There was then little doubt-
They had brought me out here for no good.
For right there was a grave,
Where my life I would waive,
I’d be food for their kith and their kin;
In this damp lonely place
They would leave no last trace-
Their mycelium enwrapping my skin.
You can guess what transpired
When a gun was then fired,
Yes they killed me to no ones surprise;
With a shot to the head
They all left me for dead,
My last thought was these sure weren’t fun guys.
[Pan and fade out on a bucolic moonlit forest scene]
When the dark clouds gather outside
This isn’t a day for errand-making;
I’d much prefer to stay here inside
In my cosy kitchen, busy bread-baking.
When the dough is in the oven,
Filling the home with its heavenly scent,
It raises, stretching strands of gluten,
You know all that kneading was time well spent.
When my instincts say its ready,
Opening the door takes my breath away;
For here before me, in golden glory:
A fully bloomed loaf to brighten my day.
There’s drama in the kitchen
For our dad’s the chef tonight
He’s cooking up a storm (of sorts)
And he promises delight.
It’s true the scents are pleasing
That the menu sounds a treat
But I wonder if he’s in too deep
Will he fall by his conceit?
The orchestra is restless
For the curtain call is due
The actors want to break a leg
We’re all waiting for his cue.
It’s been at least two hours
Since our appetites were whet
If only mom had cooked instead
We’d be fed before sunset.
At last the chef is ready
To reveal his labour’s fruit
“Soupe à l’oignon” he proudly cries
His conviction’s resolute
We couldn’t help but snigger
That he’d taken all this time
To make for us an onion soup
What a tawdry pantomime.
Still we were very hungry
That we ate it up with glee
When asked if we’d like second bowls
As one voice we all said “oui!”
Before Being 