The Crippled Physician

In bed with cold Brittle and old like The Dead Sea scrolls His weak pulse it shakes his whole Frame, shame‚ same bones and sloped Narrow shoulders of a woman on a wagon Heading west‚ bound homeward Folks he knows that he's gotta let go Be released of the anger at least‚ geez Uh, but it's burrowed deep in his soul Hidden like a pebble in snow (Yo!) (Yo!) Baby's been born with a beard worn and haggard Weird and jagged in crowds He stammers profoundly even amongst friends And locks up like a tin ornithopter Too tightly wound He's lonesome and wanting Groping for something Foraging closeness from shadows retreating And like a pro- Foundly confused Infant in the endless cold night He finally finds his own thumb And numbs himself back into sleep He says ("What an old and strange son's life is mine When I come off stage they stand in line to meet me") When I come off stage they stand in line (What an old and strange son's life is mine) The surgeon nervously goes on He never claimed to be God Just a vessel for impulse pressing into several directions Dressing and undressing the wound I'm used to Voom-voom, voom-voom‚ voom "Who do I tell the truth to?" Just a vessel for impulse pressing into several directions Dressing and undressing the wound I'm used to On a how-to on Youtube Who do I tell the truth to? Stressing and confessing from the Jetta on Nokia through Bluetooth The surgeon nervously goes on