THE DRIFTER

 

I was made in a test tube by some weird professor
in one inspiring instant.
He instructed his staff and assistant processor
to mold me into an infant.

I got drunk, I got high, I got laid. I got by.
but nothing could console me.
I wished to find out what I was and why
no one had ever told me.

I finally found I was not a machine;
neither human, plant, nor beast.
I was only intended for Halloween -
A gag for the midnight feast.

So I went to the Devil to sell my soul,
since I figured I didn´t need it.
He said it was much too torn and old,
and he couldn´t afford to feed it.

Then I made my living as Bogeyman
They paid me minimum wages.
Yet wherever I roamed at sea or on land,
I met kindreds from throughout the ages.

I finally sighed, gave up and died,
and my body was sprawled on the coast.
Then a man without hide and his mouth open wide
told me my next job was ghost.

Now my fate is to loom and hover and drift ­
Haunting and being haunted.
I´m working a never-ending shift,
just like my professor had wanted.

- Tarjei Straume, Las Vegas 1977

 

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