For those ready to believe otherwise,
these were the thoughts of Achilles P Bishop, while sipping from a pint at the counter of a londonese pub and scratching an infamous tendon at the same time, before heading home to the wifey:
I baked so slow
I'm almost old.
I never knew that I could sing,
If I could humm, if I could
buzz.
I never knew that that face fuzz
Will turn into a beard.
I never dug for gold!
I hid behind a woman's robe,
My mother's, then my wife's;
My teeth were sharper then them knifes,
I never took that bite of life!
I almost lost that left side lobe
And now I'm turning old.
My skin is turning into crust,
My veins are clogging with the rust
Of things not said,
Of deeds not done.
I feel I'll never be the one
Not even if I must,
Not even if I loose my hold
On things I love,
On things I knew...
My brain is turning like
a screw,
I still don't have the slightest
clue
On how I could,
On what I should
Howl with my growling voice.
I act as if I've still a path,
I act as if I can still grow,
As if this is a thing I know:
That I have still a
Choice.
And yet, I never dug for gold!
I never sought the golden fleece,
I almost never felt the bliss,
As if I were born old.
I knew things were all
As they should
I felt the one to change,
To hear, to speak, to walk,
To grow,
Aknowledge all that he could know,
Should have been I.
I don't know why,
But do I wanna know?