Cousin Tommy

Cousin Tommy was a mechanic
He lived ‘neath the landing
By the rocks, and the brooke, Belle Isle
His charm it has kept him, misled him
Has left him, In space, lost but not found

He left town grinning
His thoughts blow right through his smile
You’re better off dead, the truth softly read
As the notes of the flute, rang awhile

The string band did play, my daughter she laid
‘Neath the pew, of the church, Christmas day
The book of the martyr, whom intended to barter
But was met with a whip and a chain

Dominique, by the apartments
I please beg your pardon
You insisted on a full box of rain
You opened the door dear
I asked if there’s more here
As you pointed, towards the bay

Seen pictures of mothers, sisters, and brothers
The family on glass they lay
A splash of my cold beer, steered towards the veneer
Marked the photo with an unusual stain

The news daily, ‘bout Arthur Bailey
The hypnotist, new to the game
His radical ideas, brought both hate and cheers
Raised pity, and wonder, and shame

Time passes slowly, memories fade
Just do what you can to be free
You can’t be restricted
By science and the mystic
Your soul is no ones to claim