You show up late when it happens, looking for a ledge and eyes to watch you.
One last poem from the napkin, for your teary guests below,
but I’m not crying.
You’re still a fifteen-year-old industry captain.
You still cash the same old checks, and I’m not bought.
A few cheap months follow, then it’s new stories and the clothes to prove them.
It’s all too much to swallow, but I let you explain
as you close your eyes.
To me you’re still a fifteen-year-old industry captain.
You still cash the same old checks, and I’m not bought.
On the phone you’re angry.
You say I’ve wandered away from where we dropped it.
You claim the years have changed me;
I’m the company I keep, and you “don’t know why.”
Because you’re still a fifteen-year-old industry captain.
You still cash the same old checks, and I’m not bought.
Go back to “Secret Weapon”.