In The Mirror
Few people know exactly what happened,
she was found lying breathless at the base of the stair
Her gnarled lips dry and her head slightly flattened
and stuck to the floor by her blood and her hair
Slices of sun rays through blades of Venetian
slant past the doorway across where she lies
Her fingertips gentle and lost in the carpet,
a fixed point invisible met by her eyes
The tap in the kitchen was patiently dripping,
the only thing beating that wasnít alive
Filling the cup from which she was sipping
waits for the twist of Ďoffí to arrive...
The mounts in her mouth were more plastic than natural
waiting for rattles that gristle prevents
Hearses cast shadows and rumble politely
another night dead to the chain of events
Who has a key then, to let themselves in?
Who will be met by their fate in her face?
Who can revive the lovely dear Lulu?
Who will wrap her in sheer Maltese lace?
...just bein' Bluesy