14Blues Lion
©2003 Gibbens/Weston

They’re in the chamber striking the iron,
Making their points and grinding their axes.
I’m in the corridor with the blues lion,
Loading up his panniers with drums and saxes,
Ticking off the list and getting ready to go.

The waiting room’s full of dozing straw mannequins,
One head resting on the next one’s shoulders.
I borrow one of their hats and then start panicking
When in at the far door come a half-dozen soldiers,
Clinking their armour and wanting to know,

“What’s under your hat? What’s in the basket?
Where do you work? Whose is the leopard?
If you’ve got a question why don’t you ask it?”
I’ll tell them nothing except I’m a shepherd
And all I want to know is, where’s my lamb?

The blues lion growls because one of them’s smoking,
Nods at the sign and says, “Can’t you read?”
The soldier laughs back, “You must be joking!”
Lights up another and pays no heed.
The tag on his breastplate says that he’s called Sam.

Sam reminded me of a friend of mine,
Somebody who’s since
Crossed over the line,
Somebody unique.

The debate inside’s getting hotter by the minute
And there’s a smell in the room of singeing straw.
I fail to see what point there is in it
And start to head the lion for the exit door,
Leaving them all to smoulder and ponder.

Well, I mount up as the council breaks up
And the soldiers behind us start shouting dirty names,
While over in the corner the mannequin wakes up
As his hatless head and his chair burst into flames
And the lion and I take to the wild blue yonder.