A rat done bit my sister Nell.

      Whitey’s  on the moon

Her face and arms began to swell.

     Whitey's on the moon

 

I can't pay no doctor bill.

     but Whitey's on the moon

 

Ten years from now I'll be paying still.
     while Whitey's on the moon

 

The man just upped my rent last night.
     'cause Whitey's on the moon

No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
     but Whitey's on the moon

 

I wonder why he's upping me?
     'cause Whitey's on the moon?

I was already paying him fifty a week.

Taxes taking my whole damn check,
Junkies making me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is going up,
And as if all that shit wasn't enough

     Whitey’s on the moon

 

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
     Whitey’s on the moon

Her face and arm began to swell.
     but Whitey's on the moon

 

Was all that money I made last year
     for Whitey on the moon?

How come there ain't no money here?
     hm! Whitey's on the moon

Y'know I just about had my fill
     of Whitey on the moon

I think I'll send these doctor bills,
     airmail special to Whitey on the moon

 

                                              Gil Scott-Heron

Punctured bicycle, rusts in the slough of despond
Sign posts he made famous are now misaligned
They’re better left laying where they lie
But who will replace the stars in our eyes?
When Morrissey finally dies

When I was kid, he made a brave sound
But when we both grew old, he seemed so alone
“Well-read”, I suppose, is how he would like to be known
But what I want to know is will three words on a headstone suffice?
When Morrissey finally dies

He was healthier than he ever let on// But in the end his body let him down, Oh!
His sickness was one of the heart// The legend of the young man gone soft
Who will now rearrange the furniture?
He backed his way into the future
Was he “one with the younger ones”?
No one thought his time would ever come
When Morrissey has finally GONE!
No!

Mic stand is stable, whip crack the cable
The songbird of Man-city,
young blue eyes
When Morrissey finally dies...

Clock on the wall, [the] hour’s come ‘round
Cummings, Stevens, Williams, and Pound
I wear black on the outside: it’s my vocation
When his time comes, I’ll pray for his salvation
When Morrissey finally dies
When Morrissey Finally dies
When Steven [Patrick] Morrissey finally dies

ABSTRACT: The author (James Bozeman) explores the relationship between his own life and that of Steven Patrick Morrissey, famed singer for the band The Smiths and of a similarly illustrious solo career. The author explores the liminal space between life and death, between singer and fan, and observes his own potential for grief in the face of an intangible loss. The author interweaves the mystical (prayer) with the practical (the lives of both singer and fan) in the effort to set down a future-as-now narrative. Pain and joy are offered as the potential result of the working out of these converse planes.