The Song of Master and Slave

You find yourself embedded in an opera of sex and fair skin
Stained words of home that beckons and cymbals that crash
Mirrors react with the sun that shines
Books of London and books of Rome all burn as the strings are tuned
Maybe you should have taught yourself how to tie lace and the rope of a flag
Maybe you should have learnt to sing the song of master and slave
There is no room in the photography booth, no room in the family
There is too much room in your underwear, too much hair on your chin
You have too many battlements, too many conversations, too many cigarettes
It's impossible to wait for the new horoscope, it's time to go away
Perhaps there is a chance that the mountain can be moved, but not to you
The forrest moved to Macbeth, the garden to man
Deep in the artists studio a story was told to you of Geraniums and fire
But it was cold and early, dawn made you feel old the gods were asleep
The horses were going mad and the creeks were running black
It's time to build your own little raft, with sail blowing blue
It's time to learn a little song, the song of Master and Slave
You will find yourself somewhere you can stand on your own
On a street being broken with the root of elder and elm
With the galleries aflame with the fire of the sodomite baker
Hearing the words spoken by the exotic junky and the poetry thief
Buying metals and gems that you have never seen, stones that terrify, delight, astound
Your blood is so quick to leave your fingers, and where does it go?
Your hotel is so quick to close it's doors and where do you go?
The cartwheeling madness that burns through the brightness of your eye
The trickery of your speech, and the way that the books open themselves to you
Inspire those whose never ask themselves why
And pull all of the clover out at their feet to feed the cattle that they bring
Feed the children to your thoughts of wisdom, tell the story of Fire and Geranium
And sing the song of Master and Slave
Inspire! Inspire! Inspire!
And never ask yourself why