Jem's Song
Don't call me Jeremy, Mom, I call myself "Jem."
I had it on my nametag in the bookstore back when
I dished rare ed comics and spun vinyl to the plebs
"Anarchist bookstores have opening hours too," is what my boss said.
It's an anarchist bookstore, why'd it matter if I'm late?
The goths aren't going nowhere, their kohl pencil can wait
sleeping in was just civil disobedience, a disguised rise against
but Reiner, slave of "business hours," didn't get what it meant.
Why was I sleeping? You want to ask.
Um, have you ever fallen asleep after drinking a cask?
The white zin was white magic as we drank in our pile
my flannelette shirt rubbed against hers to beguile
It was totally worth skipping my shift
our skinny naked bodies set all adrift
in all-natural fibres, my spring awakening
then getting high again after some more brownie baking
What am I doing now I'm unemployed?
Ma, money enchains us all, it's a government ploy
I'm living the organic life my mother intended
mother nature, that is, sorry if I upended
your predictable commitment to the status quo
Mom, I made my own jam, look how far I will go!
I'm thinking of starting a business around ginger
ginger purses and shoes - say my landlord's a real stinger
could you maybe help me with my artist loft rent?
I had some rupees but on ginger they're spent
I got fired from my job at the anarchist bookstore
... when a hipster angel stole my heart, she broke anarchist law.
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