don't touch me there

the old grey whistle test

rated highly among the very best,

and a lonesome kid running down the first base line

once rated as a very good friend of mine,

both took too long and he was slow:

maybe he didn't remember which way to go?

missed second rounded third heading home

last seen reading about the rise and fall of Rome

he had his legs crossed

hitching a ride somewhere but he seemed lost

a white punk on dope

without a shred of hope

no longer self-reflective

like a long dead 50's detective

black and white and down on one knee

hoping to find a new show on his old TV:

will it be an episode about LSD?

or handmade Indian turquoise jewelry?

when it was time to take a stand

he kept reaching out to hold me by the hand

but i said don't touch me there;

i'm sensitive about my hair

while he stood standing with baited breath

inches from his own death

screaming into the public microphone

ready to blossom but not quite fully grown

infertile like a rolling stone

looking wistfully at the distance hills,

trying to stay warm without getting the chills,

a white punk on dope chasing cheap thrills,

holding the cup of life in a steady hand yet it always spills,

looking wistfully at the distant hills.