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Cannonball Statman
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Manhattan, I am a Sheep
In Manhattan, there is a beautiful view,
longing to escape a troubled past of euphemisms and vivid nightmares;
the professor took me to the beautiful view, and said 'goodbye'
like a coward.
They showed him the view, and he was pleased;
I saw the view from the room with no windows.
What madness drew us to this room?
Philadelphia, a man by many numbers.
I know those who've stayed in the view;
come back with frightening new eyes.
When gold became a useless cover, my eyes
were opened for awhile.
Now, I can't even think about it,
because I dream every night
(even when I can't sleep),
because reality can only open your eyes so far
before the gold returns once more,
ready to blind you with yet another beautiful view;
and soon there is no truth in sight,
just the way you like it.
Isn't it funny how people can have
such a striking resemblance to one and other?
When I saw you out of the corner of my eye,
I could swear you were someone else;
and at once, we were all the same,
with deep thoughts of deeper explorations
into the far corners of the human eye,
where everything is new,
and everyone is there.
It's a strange world.
And some people just wanna play acoustic guitar
on a mattress of dying dreams,
and die into a beautiful view;
I don't know what I want.
Some people live in the 1920s,
with love for women in the backseats of cars,
into the bottomless pit
at the edges of the Earth.
It's a strange world.
In Manhattan, there is a beautiful view,
in the professor's eyes,
as he jogs
from room to room.
At night, in Skyscraper, New York,
a bullet rings through the air;
through landscapes of dirt,
and panoramas of lazy eyes.
There is something else,
behind these walls
and doors,
leading into breakfast at night,
in Skyscraper, New York.
A party emerges in Skyscraper, New York;
the lonely lounge club singer becomes physically demented.
But the man behind the wall was dying,
in a room of saturated blues and cigarette smoke
illuminated by black and white camera flashes
from photographers in tuxedoes at night,
in Skyscraper, New York.
A hospital at night, in Skyscraper, New York
is fluorescent greens and whitened walls;
a man in a gown loses all character inside of him
at the sight of a syringe,
but manages to remain calm in front of doctors
campaigning for the next parade of infants
to march in their doors, at night,
in Skyscraper, New York.
He died on the street, last night in Skyscraper, New York,
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fueled by the messages on the billboards
starring signs of the apocalypse,
and silver screen dreams of a last chance
at the road to fame,
through the back entrance at the theater
where the rocket ship went off,
and the ashes of Hi8 video tapes
of the crash sent everyone back to bed;
a memorable moment in the days of
looking out the window into a golden sky.
He was no more;
his soul sinking into the stained cement,
the raindrops in the mud,
the friends with mouths wide open,
the bluest sky from the oceans of his entire life,
at night in Skyscraper, New York.
Hey Cannonball, it's me;
hey there.
We used to spend every day together;
we used to spend all the time, together.
And I've been watching you.
I've been listening to your answering machine; you sound.
You sound so.
You sound so
nice;
and I'm looking for the ghosts
inside of your room.
I'm just looking for the ghosts;
should've kept my eyes damn well shut.
It's one final nail in the coffin;
it's one moral line in the mud.
It's one final nail; let me in?
It's one moral line; in!
I carry you! You carry me,
and you're a sheep, and I'm a sheep,
and I am watching myself.
I am watching myself walk.
I am watching myself, and I am walking down South
on Avenue A, between 3rd and 2nd.
I am walking away from myself,
and I am watching myself walking down South
on Avenue A, between 3rd and 2nd,
from between 4th and 3rd,
and there is this strange pair of tourists,
walking up North on Avenue A, between 2nd and 3rd,
shouting 'spend a year with a
serendipitous scorpion magic dentist;
he'll tear out all your teeth!'
And I am watching myself walking down South
on Avenue A, between 2nd and Houston,
from between 4th and 3rd, and I am walking away from myself,
and there is this strange pair of tourists,
walking up North on Avenue A, between 3rd and 4th,
and one of them shouts 'where's 2A?'
And I am watching myself, and I am walking down South
on Avenue A, between 2nd and Houston,
from between 4th and 3rd,
and there is this strange pair of tourists,
walking up North on Avenue A, between 3rd and 4th,
and one of them asks me 'where's 2A?'
It's behind you.
It's 'I carry you', and 'you carry me'.
It's one final nail.
It's one moral line.
Hey you; I got your message,
and I'm calling, to tell you I'm over you.
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