On the side of lonely peaks,
With a man who never speaks.
Staring into shallow seas,
Of arguments and quandaries.
I asked him, where should I go?
Had a feeling he would know.
He pointed east, back down the road,
To distant lands, and my abode.
I met a girl with flaxen hair,
Who could make you stop and stare.
She looked at me, and walked away,
But I invited her to stay.
She said I look like Andy Moore,
I'd never heard of him before.
I told her this, she gasped in fear,
And said my time was coming near.
On the gilded wheels of time,
There's a poet, who never rhymes.
A little man, with cardboard shoes,
Always looking to accuse.
He saw me walking past his door,
And he said, "Aren't you Andy Moore?"
I told him no, he closed his gate,
Ejected me from his estate.
Walking through the village streets,
Looking for a place to eat.
Attracting looks from all I see,
Glares of animosity.
I pass a church, and look inside,
Looks like someone must have died.
A tombstone lying on the floor,
Here's lies the corpse of Andy Moore.
released January 15, 2009
Written, performed and produced by Nash Sibanda