Kings Of The Old Road Poem by Nick Donaldson

It's a long long way
From cold countryside farm life of men of stature
To squats settled in dust and gloom
And the rudimentry crackwhore dwelling her life
I have seen both these places but not very often
The man who changes faces
Yet stands before me
Ben't, Skin'd, Bleach'd, Corrupt'd
With signs of deacease around the eyes
Painted in songs as the anti-hero
And in small, wick'd circles
He hangs from a knoose
Over guidlines, rehabilitation, methadone
His marble visage grasps me in
If I speak to him for too long
He will want me to join him...
And I will end up tearing my bones on the floor
Like the rest
Oh that lot,
The sheep who know where they stand
Browsing the floor with their dirty wool-clouds
Their hair falls greasy and thin
Offensive to the touch, vulgar to the sight
Teeth battered into stealth soldiers fighting for sustanence
Showing their yellowing as they baa and screech and scream
Screaming for me
The dark leans on me, the one standing
In this field of lying, with hidden weights
To collaps into the nettles
The jousting needles and hard rubs
Wraps me in comfortable warmth
Exerting We are King!
We are King!
I shall not join them.