Second-Hand Dream
Bills are paid
The lady stayed
For at least another week
A part-time French maid
Leaves cognac on her father’s grave
Loves when the radio plays, “Don’t Speak”
Our modest abode
A working Nintendo and rotatory phone
A rented American dream
I’m a pugilist and bartender
My brother’s an English teacher with tenure
My father’s in prison for a punch that ruptured some drunk’s spleen
I took a second-hand dream
And gave myself a life
It comforted like a harlot
Before it slashed me like a knife
She took a second-hand dream
And gave herself a life
Thought she’d be a starlet
Then she was my wife
She got a gig
Playing the wife of a whig
In a burlesque about Andrew Jackson
Thought she hit it big
Then snapped like a twig
When it didn’t provide much traction
And me at the undercard at Gleason’s
Fighting rabid pups for one good reason
My father thought I was good at it
She became withdrawn in a low season
Her once holy vision tantamount to treason
Often sighs melodic, “hope is just another habit.”
Chorus
Never came to nothing like an ultimatum
I expressed doubts repeated verbatim
She seemed to desire a world beyond
My brother wanted to fight and mom forbade him
But some men need gloves to attract a fair maiden
She was being hassled beneath the blue neon
These days the city streets seem to shine silver
You can push penny stocks and still claim a sliver
I couldn’t blame her for considering other possibilities
I could have gone Union, a carpenter or builder
She could fly away whenever the wind may will her
Yet here on the sidewalk she still stands by me
