The Dowser

I’ve found a place where the clothes don’t fit
Where I can whistle up the road in the rain
The old night porter sweeping up the shit
Making his legitimate claim
I jibber-jabber at the sight of the food
The spit hanging off my chin
My tummy rumbles and my guts all grind
I am anonymous and thin
Out pow-wowing with the creeps in the yard
Looking for an inch of skin
Back down to Sheridan Square
For a meeting with the gentlemen
Rancid jism in a furnished room
Boking in a bucket of tar
The living or the dead, sick or on the nod
Don’t really care who they are
The mark inside is coming up on me
A rumble nobody can cool
The Rube is a social liability
The pus oozing out of the hole
I found a place where the clothes don’t fit
And God has really let himself go
Explosions of matter in interstellar space
Smothered like a poke in the hole
The spoon and the dropper
And the dropper and the wax
The flesh gone rubbery and wrong
Only the young bring anything at all
And they’re not even young for long
My hand begin’s to dip like a dowser’s wand
Shaking on a government script
I swear I won’t do anything at all
To make the inquisitor sick
A yen comes on me like a great black wand
A great black wind through the bones
You can’t trust a special like the old time coppers
When you can’t find any way home
My old man said «Follow the van
And don’t dilly dally on the way»
Now I’m all holed up in room number nine
Staring at my shoes all day
I’ve found a place where the clothes don’t fit
Where I can whistle up the road in the rain
The old night porter sweeping up the shit
Making his legitimate claim
I’ve found a place where the clothes don’t fit
Where I can whistle up the road in the rain
The old night porter sweeping up the shit
Making his legitimate claim
I’ve found a place where the clothes don’t fit