The Gilded Gates

There are arrows in my quiver
There are buttons on my coat
There is fluid in my liver
There's a tickle in my throat

There are mumbles in my pocket
There are spiders in my head
There's a ball inside my socket
There are raisins in my bread

There are words upon this paper
There's a comet in the sky
There is water in my vapor
There is no excuse to cry

There's a mist for every morning
There's a storm on every sea
There is truth to every warning
There is something wrong with me

[There is no use in denying
The apparent errant fact
That I'm selling what I'm buying
With extraordinary tact

But if anyone's displeasures
Are the products of my word
I'd suggest that they take measures
To discard what they have heard

It is not my place to borrow
From beyond the gilded gates
Nor is it to dwell in sorrow
On the shoulders of the greats]

There is nothing on the docket
There is no one in my bed
There's a mumble in my pocket
There is nothing to be said

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