He shall come and he shall be king—maaan,
just sittin, drinkin coffee, flipin through pages when out of the mists
of my studies
comes an old woman—
flower child wannabe, she told me, crazy head talkin
from the dead—still sittin in the back of the van
smokin grass, tellin me you don’t wanna do cocaine,
I’ve done it 5, 6, maybe 8 times—it aint a good trip, maaan—
lookin me in the eyes from that distance.
From no place within our conversation she says
You will be King!
You’re gunna go far, maaan—
layin down the ancient prophecy but
I was polite. I smiled and nodded
as she took me on her memory trip—
from one sad topic to the next
she found some way to see the past again within my eyeballs.
Back to the oasis in that great desert of memory there we strolled in hot winds—
she led me to the well. I followed her static hair, she told my future—No!
My head was dizzy from the coffee grinder and her incessant attention.
You will be King!—that uneasy prophecy—
you got something to say, maaan, and I’ve been comin here awhile.
I’m flattered but—
but really, ma'am. I was being polite. So you would leave.
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