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Burgess The Rhymer

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London, England, UK

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Perhaps

by

Burgess The Rhymer


Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll be wearing the rags of the sea
If you swim in my arms for a short time
I'll wave to the shore endlessly.

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll just be the sound of a stream
I'll be cool when you tip toe up to it
because you won't know I am me.

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll be wearing the cloak of the night
and if you stumble blind down a pathway
I'll beam you a small guiding light.

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll wear the dark bark of a tree
and if you'll hug me there in the forest
I'll grow for you there, secretly.

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll be the small bruise of a cloud
raining two teardrops upon you,
on your smiling face still unbowed..

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I will be your candle flame
burning with my own desire
and silently calling your name.

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll be the warm air in your lungs
A life force but breifly within you,
a song given shape by your tongue.

Perhaps the next time that I see you
I'll be a wild flower so free
standing alone by a long dirty road
and maybe then you will pick me,
yeah, maybe then you will pick me.


Who

by

Burgess The Rhymer

I want to write you
back into my life
but the ink is fading in my pen
and today it contains only tears.

Five naked undertakers form
the phalanx of my hand,
the black pen - a coffin that they carry.

I take off my hat
and raise a glass to the memory,
but to who I wonder ?

Who I suppose,
I thought you were
when I was truly alive.

who

by

Burgess The Rhymer

I want to write you
back into my life,
but the ink is fading in my pen
and today it contains only tears.

Five naked undertakers form
the phalanx of my hand,
the black pen - a coffin that they carry.

I take off my hat
and raise a glass to the memory
but to who
I wonder ?

Who, I suppose,
I thought you were
when I was truly alive.

Just a Min'

by

Burgess The Rhymer

It charts your change
from dungarees
to fragile, feathered things
and radiating raiment that
the showgirl wears
as showgirl sings

We see your golden hotpants as
you bleat out your hypnotic spell,
a giggle in a wiggle with
such dazzling apparel

Your costumes all up on display
like crowds they never thin
but I'd wait in the cold without
to really know the girl within.

So please now
let there be no doubt,
it isn't just the Absinthe wings
that makes me wonder
just for what
the little songbird really sings.

On the event of the Victoria and Albert museum's exhibiton of Kylie Minogue's costumes.