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Wet
By
Rusty Broadspear
The paintwork around the doors and windows glistened
The wall paper became damp and begun to peel and fall,
I was as calm as ocean waves in the eye of a storm,
I knew the hit and hurt would come with the squall.
The bed was filthy, my head was numb, my clothes were damp,
The Moon was low, so was I, the dark hurt my eyes.
I was jerky, excitable, agitated, I turned on the lamp,
No food, no drink, only needles and stuff, so I’d got supplies.
The ceiling dripped water, I know, I felt it on my skin,
I saw water in my veins as I lay in indoor rain
I knew the hell-bound hit was about to begin
I was going insane, but in no state to complain.
The filthy stinking mattress was now a waterbed
Man I was rocking and grooving, and descending fast.
This, was not for kids, this was watershed
And believe me garage listeners, this awareness doesn’t last.
It was when I was riding the reaper’s cart, I saw water,
But pure, uncontaminated, not good enough to inject,
I was on the slab, raw meat, or queuing for slaughter
I wasn’t steak, chops or minced beef, I was wrecked.
But you see, you garage, house, innocent young folk,
I’m in a home, where you can’t move nothing but your head,
I survived, someone phoned, and when I awoke
I was in good hands - I could be dead - in that wet room instead.
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