Thom Yorke

Singing in another’s voice

Reaching in another head

Pulling out the phrases

Making his mint on misery

I’ve got crushed crackers in my blood

They’re salting up my seed

Making the claret colder

Poisoning the antibodies

Soaking up the soul

A foul odor is emanating

Rising from the wound

Disconcert my decision-making

Make it harder to see

The Devil made me do it

Hiding inside

Messing up the metrics

Crossing the wires

Singing songs with Thommy’s voice

Singing in the elevator

Climbing up the stares

No evidence of logic

Words don’t have to rhyme

No lyricist is living here

I hold tight to the musical blanket

---Eugene Argent