The Bicycle Song... (sung to the tune of Sonny Jim)

Deacon's on a bicycle, Deacon's in the sun.

Deacon's on a bicycle, Deacon's having fun.

Deacon's on a bicycle, Deacon has a smile.

Deacon's on a bicycle, he's gone about a mile.

He rings the bell, He gives a wave.

He's bound for hell, he has no save.

He signals right, he makes the turn.

Oh, the lessons he will learn.

Stick up kid, from the brick.

In his spokes, he puts a stick.

The bike is lost, Deacon's catches air.

Through the projects, without a care.

Deacon's on the ground, his body it does sting.

Deacon's on the ground, the kid takes everything!

Deacon's on the ground, his body feel like shit.

Deacon's on the ground, some blood he does spit.

Oh poor Deacon, when will you ever learn?

All your life, you made the wrong turn...

The Trojan Cycle?

Slam! Deacon's apartment shakes as if it's been struck by a tank. He gasps in horror as he's startled from his dreams of melon collie bliss. He rolls off his air mattress with all the elegance of a drunken one legged ballet dancer. It's 3 pm, the crash has awoken Deacon a solid hour before his usual rising time. What could this be now? The police? An angry neighbor? His mind swirls in anxious anticipation of what the noise could be. With blurry eyes, and nerve shot legs he tip toes across a sea of beer bottles and soup cans to arrive at the front door of his 1 bedroom converted garage unit. Is it the Jamaican landlord? Am I late on rent again? The Jamaican has always been good to me; but he has a temper, and debtors, this could get physical. Deacon loosens the leg off his chair and fancy's it will serve as a good club should this meeting go awry. With caution and fear he creaks the door open. To his surprise he hears not a word, or feels a forceful push-back on the door. Was I only dreaming? He ponders. As he cautiously opens the door wide, and the sun blinds his eyes, he takes a moment to gather himself, and check his surroundings. As his blurred vision fades and his senses gather, he looks out to behold something he never thought he'd see. There crashed into his front door is an old Schwinn bicycle, brown in color, rust on the handlebars. He brandishes the chair leg and calls out for the owner to show themselves, he hears nothing but silence. One more time Deacon hollers, and again he's met with the deafening sound of silence. He inspects the bicycle, it's an older model maybe the 60's but the tires are full of air, and the seat is just slightly ripped. Is this a gift? A gift from the Gods? Oh the things Deacon could do with a bicycle! He rests his "club" down for a moment, and stares at the cycle in disbelief. How could one man get so lucky he wonders. This would make returning cans so much easier, he would no longer have to take the bus to the dollar store for groceries and beer, hell he may even get back into shape, and catch the eye of a desperate woman! He regains himself for a moment and collects his thoughts. With breaking breath, and a quivering voice he lets out one final call. "Is this anyone's bicycle!" he cries. He lends an ear to the vacuum of silence, a Mexican lawn man shakes his head no, and a moment of glee washes over him. He stands up the bicycle, inspects its beauty, and moves to take it inside. As Deacon wipes away a solemn tear, he mutters to himself "what have I done to deserve this?".    

Best Friend

I've been in wars,

And I've been with whores,

I've spent many nights, on bar room floors,

I've done the favor, I didn't savor,

Had the friend, till the end,

Knife in my back, there again,

I look for the light, I'm shown the door,

"One more bartender", "ain't no more"

Streets are cold, blood is hot,

pockets empty, mind is shot,

Where to go, one place on mind,

She's always there, always kind,

She lays me down, on my back,

Pipe to my lips, I take a whack,

There I go, fading now,

brains in bubbles, dick like wow,

This is it, I'm at the end,

See you tomorrow, my only friend,

-Deacon Cassidy-