We may torture ourselves but those tortures
Cannot break our sleep
Poor A!
(Gurdjieff’s Mocking Song)
Poor A! Poor A! Now there’s a clever man!
He only wants to talk and he is happy!
I could have pulled his trousers off
Un-noticed, silly chappie!
Poor A! Poor A! What sort of man is it
Who only wants to talk and he’s okay?
I tell you everyone’s like that –
They fill the world today.
I might say poor old A is rather better
Then some wild talkniks I have met, a
Chap who in his way knows what is what –
On military onions he knows quite a lot.
In a superficial public way he tries to find out Why:
And he’d hate to think he ever told a lie.
Poor A! Poor A! He is no longer young!
He said so much I think and was uncouth
To guard against an awful chance
To listen to the truth –
He led himself a merry dance –
He hid his head in circumstance –
To fight against the truth!
Disciples: Poor us! Poor us! We really felt his tongue!
He drank Khagetia and chattered without ruth
To guard against his only chance
To hear G give out truth –
He led us all a merry dance –
He leads himself a dreary prance –
To smite against the truth!
To fight against the truth!
The Unaimed Deadman Theme
Foreign familiar filthy fastidious forgotten forbidden
Suicide’s revelation its sunnyside hidden
Death’s black-and-white checker is down on the table
Fugitive fustian funebral infinite formidable
Far down the runway the black sheds are standing
My love talks to me with a delicate air
I am the victim the assassin the wounder
Her face looks no larger as I stand close than
It simultaneously does in my telescope sights
But pleasant is walking where elmtrees paint shadow
If I fire I might as well hit me
I walked with her once where her elms brought their shadows
The dogrose dies now while the invalid car
Barks vainly and I the assassin the wounder
On the runways the markings are no longer valid
Hieroglyphs of a system now long obsolete