I met her in a bar up in Chicago
(The past is bright, the future’s tainted)
Where they sip champagne
If the grapes don’t grow
(The cart bites, the pony’s painted)

Al Capone tobacco blowing rings around roses
I risk the smoke for the perfume in spiralling doses
Her smart-phone is a mute and it has a thin skin
But she’ll talk to it tender when her options call in
And the futures begin

She clocked the tempo as the numbers were dancing
(Weak bananas, hashed potato)
To the news from the East 
And the South advancing  
(Chic sultanas lashed by tornados)

She counts the bubbles in the glass in my hand
Then instantly converts them into dollars and rand
She scribbles down the figures on a Post-It note
And tells me call her numbers if I want to sew some oats
And put the bread in a choke
Or just chew the fat
And get the buck out of that

Now I got a girl who likes her coffee grounded
And her cream on the rise and the sugar-cubes rounded
And the rice in the paddy and the cows in the meadow
Where every passing cloud casts a measurable shadow

Her past is bright, her future’s tainted

**********

Photo credit: href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/milletre/3054894492/">milletre

Coco Futures

Casual song-writer, slowly working on collection of original material ('Poncho Land') in collaboration with others

Coco Futures

Jeremy Freeson