Mark Langlais

Scandinavia

& The gastric Band

Your friend from hell arrived upon the night train:

A tripping, stumbling figure in the gloom.

Accompanied by tunes from two-bit troubadours,

Whose music settles like a dust into your room.

A mess of gold guitars and haunting rhythms has become

A torture in your scarcely wakeful hours.

In those caves of isolation where you lie back, smoke your dope,

Reinvigorating your precious mental powers.

Then we’re sitting in your kitchen and you’re bitching

And I’m itching to tell you,

That judging the world is an eminent waste of time.

There is a cold wind coming in from Scandinavia.

It’s a brittle blue day and a thin sun struggles to shine,

But outside it’s fine, but outside it’s fine.

We tiptoe over subjects, mental minefields

At mealtime moments when we chance to meet.

We gloss across those topics that might anger,

Those battle grounds that never see defeat.

Oh yes, there’s a cold wind coming in from Scandinavia,

Accompanied by a light dusting of snow.

And I pray you will recall my bad behavior

That you might always leave me outside in the cold.

For that beats sitting in your kitchen while you’re bitching

And I’m itching to tell you,

That judging the world is an eminent waste of time.

There is a cold wind coming in from Scandinavia.

It’s a brittle blue day and a thin sun struggles to shine,

But outside it’s fine, outside it’s fine.