When they finally picked him
Up off of the street,
There was nothin’ left but the tips of his fingers,
And the soles of his feet.
So they hosed down the sidewalk,
Called the local press,
They canceled his insurance
And the boarded up the windows
Of hs former home address.
And the neighbor lady said,
“He was so quiet, you know.
We always thought he was a good boy.
Then he went and exploded.”
They say he blew off his steam
Down at the waterin’ hole.
He’d say, “I’m losin’ all my senses
Just to stay in control.”
So he’d wind himself tighter,
Screw himself into the ground.
Have a nightcap that would cover up
The biggest empty head they’d ever seen
And when you boil it all down,
It doesn’t make any sense.
But way down in Sleepytown,
They’re still tryin’ to tell the difference.
They brought in Forensics
And some Federal dick,
And they viewed all of the evidence
And made themselves sick.
They were dumbstruck and heartsick
And a thousand miles from home sick.
The Fed said, “These fingerprints
Are covered all in mist,
We must face a couple facts–
It’s quite likely this poor bastard
Never really did exist.”
“Well there was no sign of progeny
Or major credit cards.
There was a couple conversations,
But there was nothin’ fast and hard.”
Well his mother come to custody,
Admitted all her guilt.
How she’d married into alcohol
And barely had provided for the brood she had built.
She said, “My children number seven,
And they all went on to school.
But this son gone all to pieces
Whas the favored one,
The only son whose blood ran slow and cool.”
“So please see that that attache case
Is laid in sacred ground,
Then lead me to the gallows boys
And kiss my ass goodbye Sleepytown.”
“Sleepytown” appears on Ghost Stories From Lonesome County and Live at the Pres House.
© and ℗ 1994, 2001 Marques Bovre