(P. Simon)
|
The last train is nearly due,
|
The underground is closing soon,
|
And in the dark deserted station,
|
Restless in anticipation,
|
A man waits in the shadows.
|
|
His restless eyes leap and scratch,
|
At all that they can touch or catch,
|
And hidden deep within his pocket,
|
Safe within its silent socket,
|
He holds a colored crayon.
|
|
Now from the tunnel's stony womb,
|
The carriage rides to meet the groom,
|
And opens wide and welcome doors,
|
But he hesitates, then withdraws
|
Deeper in the shadows.
|
|
And the train is gone suddenly
|
On wheels clicking silently
|
Like a gently tapping litany,
|
And he holds his crayon rosary
|
Tighter in his hand.
|
|
Now from his pocket quick he flashes,
|
The crayon on the wall he slashes,
|
Deep upon the advertising,
|
A single worded poem comprised
|
Of four letters.
|
|
And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding
|
The poem across the tracks rebounding
|
Shadowed by the exit light
|
His legs take their ascending flight
|
To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night.
|
|
-----------------
|
A Poem On The Underground Wall
|
| Simon & Garfunkel |
