Three rusty reivers in a flower-van
search for their comrade, the ailing Circus Man.
No sign of him since the wild times fell through
they swap their old tales now, none of them true.
Up from the badlands to dusty rutted streets
where thin boys drink codeine and their ragged mothers screech.
They heard he was sick and his family starved,
they mention his name in the
blood-spattered bars
they get hostile remarks
and they cease to enquire
when the van's set on fire.
Mouldy pink motel, the city's empty half,
three pairs of old shoes tramp the mossy path.
Their friend lies within with his bride aged fifteen,
she answers the door and relays what she's seen.
He comes to them, stiff-necked, no smile upon his lips,
but lowers his brow and says, 'what the hell is this?
These stretchy old faces, two drunks and their whore,
of welcome round here well the plague would find more'
then he slams shut the door,
and a radio plays, from a truck far away 'Rose Marie...'
Three rusty reivers, a woman and two men,
once shared the same bed, you know how, way back when.
They go back to their homes on the groaning old bus
the sky's awful blue
that one night's not discussed.
