Dispatch From Nowhere

© 2017 Robert Morris Black / Leprechaun Club Music (ASCAP) All Rights Reserved.

From a post box somewhere in Mayfair
A revolution is about to begin
Four sentences in a ransom alphabet
With instructions for who, what, where, and when

   I'm sitting in the middle of nowhere
   Can't get arrested, as hard as I try
   The grains of sand drop down through the hourglass
   The world keeps spinning and my life flies by

Up and down the channel in Canal Saint Martin
Les Jeune Gavroches stroll along the quay
Gauloises fitted up with sweet medicine
To choke the charms off the bourgeoisie

   I'm sitting in the middle of nowhere
   I’m numb as hell from my hat to my shoes
   Nothing to do, but to blot out the boredom
   With a pocketful of Valium and a bottle of booze

In a karaoke bar in Shimokitazawa
The Hello Kitty crowd sing the next best thing
American fantasies in a surreal mash-up
Of Elvis Presley and Martin Luther King

   I'm sitting here in the middle of nowhere
   Connected to the internet and cable TV
   What better way to emphasize my remoteness
   Than sitting ‘round the flat screens with just me and me

On a raggedy stoop somewhere in Bushwick
The people-watching gangsters invent new rhymes
Brooklyn street rhythms like poetic constructions
Signifyin' bards for these modern times

   I'm sitting in the middle of nowhere
   I'd surrender my tongue for a little bit of fun
   I can't even say "Boo" to a goose
   I got nowhere to walk, I got nowhere to run

In an Audi TT cruising Sunset Boulevard
The Silverlake angels live the Hollywood myth
Eating up the industry at Musso and Frank
And snorting up the ashes of Elliot Smith

   I'm sitting in the middle of nowhere
   Wondering what the hell I did with my life
   Donkey ears up and down the apples and pears
   Trying to keep the peace with my trouble and strife

From a post box somewhere in Mayfair
It's the beginning of the end of the world
Dropping stolen documents from the rich and famous
The best kept secrets of the world unfurled

   I'm sitting in the middle of nowhere
   Not enough fingers to count my constraints
   What the fuck else can a poor boy do
   But try to make a song from a string of complaints?

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