Here Comes the 2nd Act

I heard them argue near the shed
I saw them hide the turpentine
Under a kite made out of lead
The color of a clementine

I want to talk to the chef
Not him, the real chef
I want to talk to the manager
Not you, the one with the necktie

I couldn't find a place to park
Until I called the state police
The dragged me out into the dark
And charged us fifteen cents apiece

I want to talk to The Pope
The one I saw on TV
I want to talk to Al Hirt
Flight Of The Bumblebee

The bark is tough beneath your hands
As you stagger to your feet
The cops presented their demands
Which I did not expect to meet

I was sick of the help
I was tired of the night
I guess you had to be there
Which would have made me so much less lonely

If you were there
I wouldn't have to leave
And hang around the sidewalks
I could just stay

I want to talk to the man
Who organized this whole thing
I understand that his plan
Would fit me like a king

I called a ride to get back home
But my teeth were made of glass
Reflected in the dirt
Was a message on my shirt
Written in blood
It said, "Come again"