A POEM ON THE UNDERGROUND WALL

The first album that we recorded for Columbia called, “Wednesday Morning, Three A.M.,” has a picture on the cover of Paul and myself in subway system in New York here, standing at the Fifth Avenue Station next to an iron post. If you know the album then you're familiar with the picture. What you're not familiar with is the trouble that we went through in order to get that final picture because the original shots that were taken for the cover were taken off, off the picture that you see standing against the subway wall, on the platform, underneath the subway sign, and we took about 500 pictures until we were satisfied with the perfect James Dean shot, and packed up the cameras and guitars. And as we left the station, I took a glance at the subway wall in front of which we had taken all the pictures for the first time that day, and notice that written there, rather legibly, in the baroque style common to New York subway wall writers, was, was the old familiar suggestion. And rather beautifully illustrated as well. So - Well, we had a conference with Columbia records to decide what to do about this problem, and of course we immediately told Columbia that this was exactly what we wanted on the cover of the LP. Forget it. I'm mentioning this because we have taken a song, it's now two year later, Paul has written a song fairly recently, in London, dealing with theme of people who write on subway walls, but treating the theme in a rather strange and serious way. The song is called, “A Poem On The Underground Wall.” Mn... The last train is nearly due, the underground is closing soon, And in the dark deserted station; Restless in anticipation, a man waits in the shadows. His restless eyes leap and scratch, at all that they can touch or catch, And hidden deep within his pocket; Safe within silent socket, he holds a colored crayon. Now from the tunnel's story womb, the carriage rides to meet the groom, And opens wide and welcome doors, But he hesitates, then withdraws, deeper in the shadows, And the train is gone suddenly on wheels clicking silently like a gently tapping litany, And he holds his crayon rosary tighter in his hand. Now from his pocket quick he flashes, the crayon on the wall he slashes, Deep upon the advertising a single worded poem comprised of four letters And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding, The poem across the tracks rebounding, Shadowed by the exit light his legs take their ascending flight to seek the breast of darkness And be suckled by the night.