Erasmus, the boy is dead—
lost his head, heh heh, in his
own dumb-be-dumb way.
Never mind your tears old man,
never mind your pride or hopes,
you're like me, you are, so don't argue.
I saw the angels wrestle with his soul—
I saw three different women cry with longing, ache—
his mother was not one of these.
She passed away, she was spared this at least.
And I saw the man who murdered him,
hiding in an alleyway, a pistol to his head.
Erasmus, the play is the same,
the same words spoke, the same pitches, throws.
It is a mockery we live, are forced to live with,
these passions, this history, these illusions.
We are old Erasmus,
we cannot pretend to be young,
no matter how many times we are shot,
no matter how many times we succumb to longing,
lying in the softness of Mary Beth's arms.
Yes, Erasmus, the boy is dead.