PREVIEW #3 WOMAN WHO DROWNED IN HER OWN APARTMENT

This is a spoken word poem to which I’ll probably get Tony and Bill to play a little hep jazz backing. At one stage I worked on it with Tim Farriss with an idea of him recording it but like the woman in the poem I ran out of time.

WOMAN WHO DROWNED IN HER OWN APARTMENT

This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
She knew the value of a sou but she didn’t know what art meant
Sure she could plot its return on a comparative yield curve
But her heart remained empty though her fridge was full of Veuve
She wore smart suits to the battlefield of the Nikkei and the Dow
She rode a dow in Aswan and a swan in Macau
She was a woman of the new millennium but despite all this
She drowned in her own condominium

This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
It began with a leaky tap, just a drip, no great excitement
It was beneath her to call a plumber and anyway their prices were too high
She thought her brains would keep her rich and her pride would keep her dry
Hey “Wd’ya W’d’ya” she was a woman in control
She’d golfed from Gaza to Ginza to the Plaza del Sol
So though her shoes were damp from this strange irrigation
Still she felt no panic at this minor irritation.

By the time she called her broker, nail-artist and her shrink
The contents of her flat were under threat from the contents of her sink
But in the executive mind common sense abounds
She stripped her wet clothes from her body moved her CD to higher ground
She glad wrapped her Walkman and Kelvin Klein raincoat
She floated her Sondheims on condoms inflated
She refused to call for help – what would her friends say?
And so she drowned at 1p.m. on a Wednesday.

They say as you drown your whole life flashes before your eyes
So what she saw was no more than she could buy
And did she fret and pout that Death had called her to his disco?
No though she was pissed now she miss that ball in San Francisco
Her crowd were an unforgiving sort, they’d not forget the snub
She had clubbed with the Trumps and trumped with clubs
But prestige doesn’t help when you’ve run out of headroom
A fireman with tatts found her bobbing against the ceiling of her own 2 bedroom.

That was a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
She knew the value of a sou but she didn’t know what art meant
She tried to buy the meaning of life but won only the meanness of death
She rode a dow in Aswan but she ran out of breath
In her own condominium
At 1p.m. on a Wednesday
With barely a sound
She drowned.

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