A boy prefers a crowd of older folks.
He will bow.
He holds a snow cone parallel to the stone.
To the boardwalking elders, it's a magic microphone.
Sing a warning song.
He sounds just like Perry Como.
Tie a sweater to his hips.
Hang tight to the flagpole.
His feet kick out to the threatening sky.
Too young for prediction, they're ignoring his signs.
He was just for decoration, just a little entertainment.

Everyone has something that they'd like to see torn down.
But not this small house that has walked upon stilts.
Nor the roller rink or bakeries that have shuttered up since.
Oh, Isabel, as I make my way home my baritone, is guaranteed gold.
But it was just an aberration, just your wind at my throat.
I rode into a car door, into the bushes I was thrown.
They were just for decoration.
How was I to know?

Copyright: ROUGH TRADE PUBLISHING
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