But Sydney's Dead Now©
But Sydney's dead now,
and I guess that's how it has to be.
He took ill last December, just after his birthday,
and passed away and January, just after mine.
and Pluto is gone now because Sydney
stitched it all together.
and with him gone, it all fell apart.
Last I heard, Roman moved to Hollywood,
giving head to all the boys
for a hundred bucks a pop. Last I heard, he's doing just fine.
and I talked to Tiger three months ago,
exactly one year after Sydney was buried.
He's loving New York and he says
his new band will never be the Pluto Cats,
but he's doing fine.
I still see Wayne once and a while,
roaming the streets at night in dark sunglasses.
He looks sick and I wonder,
but he says he's doing fine.
And Christophe and I, well, we're quite a pair.
He'll never be Sydney, but I love him
just the same.
and we tell Sydney stories,
still sing his songs.
Once in a while, over coffee, Christophe
recites a poem
and the words escape him,
but I get his meaning.
I hear Sydney in his tone.
We visit the grave about once a month,
leave a red rose, say a word or two.
Sometimes Christophe cries.
Sometimes I cry.
We'll never forget him, he's changed us all so.
But sometimes the words elude us
and the notes escape us
and the meanings of his stories
are forgotten.
So we visit the grave, about once a month
And Christophe, he always asks,
"Sydney," he sometimes lays on the cold, cold earth.
"Sydney, the earth is so cold. Can you show me again
how to get to Pluto?"
But we never get an answer.
and Tiger said, on the phone three months ago,
"I think Sydney took Pluto with him,
wherever he went, but we'll all get there,
someday."
And then he cried.
"And he'll be there, waiting, and he'll
remind me again the words to his poems."
And I think Tiger's right.
I can see him now, Sleeping in a crater.
