Glycaemic Index Blues

As the village gives me up for dead
I hide in a neighbour’s bed
Then under the door glides a river of glossy red
A fruit in a fractured skin
A slit in the peel and the juices come tumbling through
The boat was too crowded so I had a word with the crew
I can’t get my head around spread betting
I’d rather use the Cher setting
The world’s financial markets hold no interest for me
That man from the string quartet
Is wearing the thing that he won in a drunken bet
Your friend’s trying to call you
It looks like he might be upset
Intricate patterns of light dictate the tone
Downed by a wink from a sylph I’ve never known
I’m so alone
The cutting-room men from the studio got their wish
The clunk of a cauldron on flagstone, the slippery dish
My seventy-eights in the move were all smashed apart
The legs in the megaphone pulse to the beat of my heart