Tag Archives: poem

Seafoam Green


A Cape Cod woman is haunted by the presence of a man in a melted Halloween mask. Read it here:

Manatee River Bank




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A poem by Clutch

Maryland, America’s Clutch has a knack for lyrics. These guys pen words that  bear striking imagery and consistently reinvent the burning wheels of obscurity. Here is the best of the best, in a poem.

Behind the Cliffside Inn
I heard a fiddle and a mandolin
Keeping rhythm on an old washboard
And stomping on the floor

Can you hear the fife and drums, barnacles barking at the sun

I met a lady down in Prathertown, two rocking chairs
She said take a seat boy and I’ll treat you fair
Snake charmers cold infidels, get a running start
Pick up the pieces in the graveyard and unbury my heart

If you want to know Paradise,
And you want to know Hell
Want to drink that cool clear liquor
Better dig a little deeper in the well
Give disease so the swine will marry and propagate lies

Tough luck for elected officials. The beast you see got fifty eyes

From the temple grips his chair
Watch the people climb the stairs
Watch the leaves grow then fall
Blow across the empty mall
General Borders
You have your orders

Invisible Free-Masonry, incoming mortars

Himalaya is my old time stomping ground
(oh yes, time is of the essence)
Manitoba, better snows I’ve never found
(oh yes, time is of the essence)
I always take my time
A maverick moonminer sipping sunshine
Hauled ass to Memphis, I spoke to the Pharoah
He told me his dreams, I counted the sparrows
Steve McQueen’s got nothing on me

I take you back west of Pleiades

Holy Diver, where you at
There’s a woman on the hill in a wide brimmed hat
With a shotgun, .44
And a razor back boar in the back of a jacked up Ford
If you’re in the market for green zucchini
Farmers’ Almanac got the largest size
Winnebago woman, whatcha cookin

Move it on over and give me a slice

Never trust the white man driving the black van
He’s just saving all his voodoo for you
Just for you
Only red horse rainbows can save us

Let them run wild and asunder

Oh, but one things for certain
Willie Nelson only smokes the greenest green
The leather soles go shuffling in
Stinking of smoke and ten cent gin
Now who will toast our noble host that has this morning given up the ghost?

Bang, bang, bang, bang
Vamanos, vamanos
Bang, bang, bang

Vamanos, vamanos

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Filed under Art, Beards, Indie music