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East coast, West coast
Full English and French toast
Man of the hour and last-minute guest host
Subway flasher stalking on the Metro
Walking talking trash in a trench coat
Mama’s fishnet stockings in stilettos
Just another notch for the bed post

Does it make me black if I’m a jive-talking rebel
Does it make me white if I’m a devil
Does it make me bass if I chase away the treble
Does that make me rock or precious metal
Sitting on the dock skimming pebbles
Thinking big and sinking lesser vessels
Level-headed yes, yet a little temperamental
Any damage purely accidental
Does it make me Streisand if I dress up like in Yentl
Should it matter some who I resemble
Will it make me brake if I press pedal down to metal
Does it pot the black to call the kettle
Call me sentimental
If I flatter to embezzle
Call me whiskey bent if I am bound for hell and settled
Call a cab or drive me fucking mental
Call me Al, let’s pad this instrumental

East coast, West coast
Full English and French toast
Color blind and headed for the ghetto
Only just arrived but I’ve been present since the get go
Holding on for dear life as I let go
Punch me in the nuts and I shall sing this in falsetto
Clutching at my junk like it is bread dough

Do the sun and moon have any plans to meet up soon
Do the rain clouds cheer up after monsoon
Does the green grass pass on asking out the blue lagoon
Unless there’s beauty lurking in the sand dunes
Does it make me Amos if I hang out with an Andrew
Does that make me second-hand or brand new
Sitting on a mint with no red cents to rub together
Thinking big with dibs on boxing clever
Lonely heart disowned since outgrowing Sergeant Pepper
Came into my own and for the better
Not to be facetious but this fast food ain’t delicious
Something smells suspicious, could it be this Cosby Sweater
Would this garden salad taste a bit less bland with Feta
Not to be a beggar sir but how’s about that shelter
Would you care to measure pain amidst the leisure of your pleasure
And should I leave a twenty on the dresser

East coast, West coast
Full English and French toast
Fake news and end notes
Two strong years on, yet still they’re bleating on about a rigged vote
Talk trasher fumbling the soap rope
Just another porker for the pot roast

Call me pseudo mental
Do not flatter to embezzle
Call me whiskey bent if I am bound for hell and settled
Call this Chapel Black and stack those chips on elemental
Call me greykeeper and we’ll double up your stack
It’s a short ride to hell and a long as fuck one back
Never more defensive than when planning an attack
Ever more protected by far more than canny knack
Attitude adjusted, custom fitting six white Cadillacs
East coast, West coast
Still go toe-to-toe
And that is slack Jack

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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