The Outpost

By Dan Murphy

(c) 1989

There's some people you remember, and some you never knew.
A crying clown, a lyin' judge, a preacherman or two,
Senators and congressmen and bureaucrats who dance,
The president and all his men in sixteen dollar pants,
Lucifer's motley minions, Gabriel's holy host,
Are passing in parade as I look out from the Outpost.

They ride the rail or sail the sea looking for the name
Of the book of contradictions and who really is to blame.
"I gotta travel on, you know," the guitar player said,
The truth is never where he's at, it's always just ahead.
Around the world and back again, then from coast to coast,
No one's going all that far to get to the Outpost.

The headlines tell no secrets, and the TV news will show
That the ones who know ain't talkin, and the ones who talk don't know.
Gurus, popes, and generals, cartoon writers, jocks and shrinks,
Are offering salvation or a better beer to drink.
Underware and underwriters, bottom-lined and grossed;
Hot dog stands and sushi bars, no, not in the Outpost.

The poet walks a chilly mile, the postman rings but once,
Truckers preach the gospel and professors do their stunts.
It may be in a letter, on a signpost in the snow,
When all is said and done at last, you only have to go
Through the smoke rings of your mind, then to the windy coast,
It's just a short ways down the road to meet at the Outpost.

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