The madman howls,
the pawnbroker scowls
and the medicine man, he done you wrong.
The Champion growls as he
throws in the towel
it does not pay to be where you don’t belong.
His sister, she whispers discretely
She knows how to be good to me.
She’s my unveiled vision
she devours my religion.
She is Siddhartha’s blues, definitively.
The church burned down
the priest, he stood his ground
like suddenly , it was a crisis of faith.
He stared at me
you would have thought I was from outer space!
Meanwhile, the choir was harmonising
so strangely and lightly off-key
And I learned that fire and the axe
don’t respect established facts
they trust Siddhartha’s blues, implicitly.
I framed the odds for all your
I gave them every one a standing start.
But on the path they trod
a wink’s as good as a nod
to the hope within a gleanimg heart.
And in the end, it all serves no purpose
it’s just to beat you down so absolutely
and that end result is just a
This is Siddhartha’s blues, to infinity.
Dogs are barking,
Dr Strangelove’s parking
his Mitsubishi van behind the hall.
I’m not asking
and I’m not expecting
a higher voice to return my call.
I can get used to deafness.
I can get used to lack of company.
In god we may trust,
but come the maggots and dust
it’s just Siddhartha’s blues awaiting for me.
the poem originally appeared on my MySpace blog, Full Mental Jacket, on 06/24/06