Memorial Day, Weekend

11am on a Chicago morning,
taking the escalator through old O’Hare.
Memorial Day weekends a-coming,
and I’m the singer of other peoples songs.

Lori and Bob are high at the turnstile,
sucking on milkshakes in wrap-around shades.
Smoking Virginia Slims at the airport,
savouring the sunshine on a wet grainy day.

In the tune that we’re singing,
is a line about killing.
And the tapes locked and loaded,
a song for the drive.

And they carried me down to Wrigley Field,
before making a connection with a Stock Exchange guy.
They hooked-up and goosed-up with this briefcase and trench-coat.
With this Wall Street Journal, with this gram and a half.

He took us down to a bar in District,
all oak lined and coke-lined, and full of mischief.
Where we lost half of everything, including our car:
lost and unfounded, for all of the night.

So we took a cab
and we passed through the Projects,
where Bob did his business,
and Lori just drank.

We sat on boxes, in  unfurnished rooms.
We raved away until night became day.
Then next thing I know, is I’m naked with Lori.
And Bob’s a-blasting, his Remington steel.

For Memorial Day weekends a-coming,
and I’m the singer of other peoples songs.


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