Babbling

Babbling
or the
I Can't Be Bothered To Come Up With a Coherent Theme or Overarching Narrative Blues.

I can't be bothered,
it seems today,
to come up with nothing
but noizes hey hey!

At least I can make up,
A rhythm and rhyme,
You'ld think I'd be happy,
But for just this one time,
I was aiming at composing in blank-verse.

Well, what do you know,
looks like I got loose,
of the rhythm in my head.

I'd keep hearing Bobby Dylan's voice,
Singin my words.  Maybe there his words,
And I just think there mine.

And If I ever publish this drivel,
I'll have to pay him royalties for his time,
Well screw him and that, he won't see a dime.

I keep hearing Peter Cushing in my brain,
and the dripping of the tap,
And cock-roaches dancing down in my drain,
have they got tiny umbrellas, singing in the rain,
caused by the constant dripping in my drain.

I'd better turn the tap a bit so they won't get too wet,
If they all got washed away however, it's not as though I'd fret.

And still I keep trying, not to rhyme, or keep time,
With the music in my brain, from the tip-tapping of the drain,
Counterpointed by the droning back beat of rush-hour cars.

And each driver carries with him his own song, his own story.
None of them know I'm here, my life being moved along,
By the dragging rythm of each cars passing, they just a note,
In a background instrument playing the symphony of the dull end,
capping off grimly the last long musical number in the oppereta of my day.
What note am I to them?