My Cardboard Balcony

Son Of Kings by Belinda Roddie David, David, please come home some day. Your father's sick and dying, and the nights are very cold. You took away the fire in a box when you departed. Now you watch the world grow dark while your name repeats on the wind: David, David, David. David, David, you are the son of kings. But they lost their crowns and also their heads in wars long ago. Your brothers fight for bread, every crumb sticking to their teeth, while they screech your name like wounded beasts: David, David, David. David, David, you are always welcome here. I'll make you your favorite soup, and we'll eat for an extra two. Your father's singing philosophy to cope with his impending doom, while in the room, we wipe his face after he cries, and we sing him a humble lullaby, called, "David, David, David."

We flew over rooftops and found gold coins buried in the mouths of petrified gods. We sank into streams and grew music in fresh soil, listening to each growing stalk sing. We thought about invading Heaven and taking over the paradise, but we were too tired after such a long, fun day. We settled on drinking a bottle of wine each, while the trains rolled over our toes.