Wishbone

I got the long end of the wishbone

Hear me pray
I leave it to God to do the trick

I closed my eyes and thought of you
He said he can't give me what I want

I prayed and prayed
Wishing for a miracle
This is what I want
Can my voice be heard


I don't need a thing
What I want is him
I close my eyes
and I think of you

It may not be a true love
He may not be the one
but he is perfect for me


But I prayed and prayed
Wishing for a miracle
This is what I want
Can my voice be heard

If he can't be mine
Let me forget him
So I won't waste my time praying

Storyboard of London

I, as one of those extras,
scurry around you.
Projectors reel films
one after another, recording
a seamless volume of your history.

You, ever so still, stand there and watch
fast-forwarded images, sometimes sickening,
capturing every motion from east to west.
Among the streams of blurs, blue round plaques appear;
those of legends you have proudly raised.

I know the other side of you.
When the sun fades out,
you nonchalantly smuggle in
a herd of growling dogs hungry for food,
ravaging your streets, smudging your name.
In the dim light, they mark their territory,
splashing paints, screaming their names;
those under-exposed profligate squatters.

Stepping on stubs smouldering danger,
I, as a passer-by hurry home,
a shelter I have put together;
my past, my ambition, my will, my devotion.

Locking up all of my yesterdays,
I step out from home, into a scene
where people stream in and against the current.
I screen your streets.
I script your days.
A dust in your lens I may be. Clips to be cut I may be.
I, as I am, in Merry Old You, shoot my days with you.