The
Writer's Voice
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Baby
Johnson
By
Rusty
Broadspear
They call me 'Baby' Johnson
Yeah
I know I'm 26,
But youngest of six.
Live on the outskirts of Paris.
This very moment
Sitting on the South bank of the Seine
Pondering the murky depths
Of my life.
Oh, yeah,
Very high highs back then,
Until I was hooked.
No - I mean really hooked
You know -
Like a fish.
Yanked upwards
To new skies and highs.
New world
Strange atmosphere
Unable to breathe
Writhing, floundering.
Then they slit me
Gutted me -
Oh yeah - I felt gutted alright.
Salted me
Then threw me into this chair
And said I was lucky.
Yeah
They still call me 'Baby' Johnson
Maybe for different reasons
Like
I can't walk
Can hardly talk
And I dribble a lot
I get pushed around
I sleep in a cot.
Oh yeah
I also lost my woman
She was in shock
Then delayed reaction
Slammed her backwards
Into a brick wall.
When she recovered
She denied the truth,
She didn't know me
She never knew me.
'Baby' Johnson
Is 26
And ready to sign off.
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