The radio that told me all about the death of John Ashbery
Is sitting on the road, in a thousand pieces, singing Lonesome Valley
And I'm still in this bar, strumming a dead guitar
I'm all alone on this dying star
So long, John
The birds are in the snare, the cops are in the shrubs, making love with billy clubs
The apple trees are bare and September's here, it's my favorite time of year
Like a bird on a post, singing of what matters most
He was better than jam and toast
So long, John
The radio is blowing down the road, on the long journey home
Whenever I get down, I just recall a poem, it's like a home away from home
But I'm strung out on this chord, pounding a dark keyboard
And I don't care where I'm slouching toward
So long, John
