Yitzchak Jasny tossed and turned on his futon, in the grip of a curiously real dream.
Some space rock band dressed like Viking Gods, Hawkwind maybe, was performing at a festival or something. Yitzchak was standing in the crowd, dozens of strangers close pressed in around him, and the air was electric as the singer walked up to the mic. His voice, richly laden with delay and other effects, emitted from the huge stacks of tall speakers everywhere.
Robert Calvert:
"The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me! (me, me, me, me)
The peal of the stroke of twelve just doesn't sound reeeeal! (real, real, real)
The spokes of time aren't like a spiral staircase!
The Waves are not ones science surfers should chase,
These simple oversights reveal
that we'll all be erased!!!!
The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me! (me, me, me, meeee...)
Don't you mess with the spokes of time,
Phases Stages Rages Crime!
You cannot unwrite the backwards rhyme!
The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me!(me me me me meeeee)
The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me!(me me me me meeee)
To meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee......"
Mr. Jasny awoke, sat up, eyes wide. He got up and got dressed quickly and packed a small overnight satchel. Then, looking around his apartment briefly to make sure all was snug and secure, he left for the airport. They would be expecting him.
No comments:
Post a Comment