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Michael Caufield: Music

Is this really you Pinocchio?

(Michael Caufield)
Is this really you Pinocchio?


 


Once upon a long ago time


before the first word pushed us out into endless straight lines


there lived a lovely maiden beneath an almond tree


who could smile without thinking at all there was to see


And then the serpent came


and he taught her how to name everything throughout all creation


who then subsequently grouped themselves and formed themselves into nations


twenty thousand years later there’s politicians


telling us how to build a better nation by stockpiling big munitions


Boom boom boom


we all dead


For once in my life I wish I had the power to do what I know is right


to never think twice about it when you’ve got the wind at your back and sails are pulling for land


But hey isn’t that what the cowards say when they’re sitting at home


looking out the window dreaming about castles and ruby dark red wine


and women with goose-white breasts countries to save and demons and monsters to arrest


but hey I won’t keep you any longer I know you’ve got to get back to work


So work away


there’s nothing to say


I probably better lower it down to a lower key just so you’d look at me


you know I love you—a confession that slowed everything down to where you could see my strings


But is this really you Pinocchio? Your hands are cold


but your eyes and bright and your heart must surely know by now


your nose has gotten much too long and there’s nothing left for you to fall back on


The orders are to make it through another night to find out what’s wrong or right what’s black or white


without even knowing what to do with this shade of indecipherable grey


Hey how you do – I’d like to introduce you to yourself


But you’re working too hard to come up with clever things from your fingertips thinking if you could


deliver yourself into a special world where only you could rule but who you trying to fool and


Is this really you Pinocchio? Your hands are cold but your eyes are bright and your heart must surely know by now your nose has gotten much too long and there’s nothing left for you to fall back on


And so the little wooden man takes his little wooden hand and traces it across the sky


and wonders why he can never cry or be alive inside


Inside inside inside . . .


I can see my hands why can’t they push away all those things that keep me stuck


inside