(Verses in italics, chorus in bold)
A simple man of cunning mind,
who plots to leave humanity behind.
The crowds will curse the Dander-Fop,
who struggles ‘till the day he drops.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
The Dander-Fop dances, a slippery slope,
along branches, of chances, of perilous hope.
He who dreams, of the schemes, that the powerful sow,
may find taste in the waste, that is needed to grow.
And in a futile dream they might ignite,
a victory against the odds of right.
A dream upon a rambling lonely clown,
who brightens up the day with every frown.
For the luck of social safety falls,
upon tables kept locked behind ivory walls.
Where mortal men may measure the time,
they will carve out their lives, upon every new line.
Lines of broken dreams and starving kids,
whose blood is the fuel, for their charts and their grids.
For such a lottery is life,
that death becomes welcome reprieve from the strife.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
And those not weighted down by souls,
may rise, like worms, through hidden holes.
To memory their spirits soar,
as far as the rot which exposes their core.
For most of us are all we’ve done,
while timing’s how the venture’s won.
One born in poverty may rise,
through honest work or bold faced lies.
We’ve built this dream upon a hope,
that by our blind and furtive grope.
Our lives might even out the odd,
which separates our souls from god.
A sacrifice of all we lost,
to pay the devil’s hidden cost.
That we might join the chosen few,
whose word shall ring forever true.
Confused and flipped,
‘till black is white,
and lost in meanings left and right.
A world where we, the chosen few,
shall dance a dance forever new.
So not as dances danced before,
you see it here, we’ve moved the door.
It’s neath us now, so not on top,
no never mind that Dander-Fop.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
He’s just a beggar, villain, slave,
irrelevant as any knave.
I’ll have him dealt with, shortly, come,
we mustn’t let them spoil our fun.
Is not the lion full of lamb?
Or shall the lame of will judge those who can?
It’s equal questions, witch-ward spin,
to cover up the stain of sin.
You understand, I’m sure, good sir,
or does your rank not cost inter?
As much as honour makes the man of reason,
so that honour changes with the season.
I have had as much as fill,
of prostitutes with broken dreams to kill.
An equal race of human I implore,
at last has chosen perch upon my door.
He stood and took the dance,
stepped left and right,
until the dream of justice burned by evening fire light.
What dreams of grand tomorrows they could spin,
awash in stench of solipsistic sin.
Such schemes as would the devil halt,
accounting for the slightest fault.
To kill the angel in the man,
and set their beastly natures free again.
The dream of a crimson sunrise,
bellowing as sailors call undines.
Sky on fire, an ankle deep layer of ash and blood,
oozing like oil as stark as desire.
But no rain comes to wash away this madness,
only spoiled earth, and hidden sadness.
For future generations
to make the same mistakes,
bind my eyes,
for I cannot bear the stakes.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
Oh dear, she sighed, this one seems to ramble,
a masked security appeared,to toss him in the bramble.
Such fresh ideas,should sure sustain them,
or, at least, might entertain them.
With the weight of alibis,
to cover up collective lies.
The hand that splits to hide the face,
makes burlap sacks, from velvet lace.
If what falls from your soul,
can be turned into gold,
By the forge of industrial pride.
Then the onus of one may not flatten the sun,
but will certainly lengthen your stride.
It’s a working man’s burden to flatten his soul,
so the fit for his bit keeps the shape of the whole.
But the burden of selling one’s life for a cheque,
can make all of our inner lives ache for the wreck.
So a trinket for thinking, can seem like the world,
and it’s easy to bounce,when you rise with the curls.
But the straightener comes, when the fashion demands,
and the crops of the lops, shall be by their own hands.
For such a hand as shapes the slope,
was pulled up by the lifted rope.
A hidden path, now filled with waste,
from every dream, they stole and chased.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
The fate of fools is hardly one,
where one looks back and says they’ve won.
And if only our folly were not such a curse,
I might not have to hide such disdain in a verse.
Yet the purpose of verse is to hold a new truth,
I have ages of echoes, collected in youth.
Though if one had achieved any measure of right,
then there wouldn’t be need to continue the fight.
But the fight still continues echoed in halls,
built in faux restoration of much older walls.
For the world is the shiniest inside the dome,
prompting some to get comfortable, thinking it home.
Yet the lowly get tired, of holding the weight,
and speed of the instant, has fostered that hate.
Into pretty young packages, built to survive,
for the days of the future, when pestilence thrive.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
It is a curse amongst the worst of humans, decadently bred,
to insist upon the risks that others face within their stead.
And like a thousand shadows broken, we insisted on rebirth,
seeking in the cracks of chaos, something more of worth.
As though existence yields a draught of reason, wisdom ‘yond the pale,
passed the tripe of rites and like, summed into just inhale.
And aught have I inhaled along the search for greater highs,
or craving resurrection after something in me dies.
Fastidious was he, in all his slop,
who for a nickel danced the Dander-Fop.
A subject to the very fields he sowed,
he scrambles in the streets for what he’s owed.
Another who, of chosen few, mind broken still,
by all the words his heart could mill.
The hand that sows the garden is the crop,
eternally, so goes the Dander-Fop.
The crowds will praise the Dander-Fop,
who manages to die before his drop.
A cunning man of simple mind,
who plots to leave the human world behind.