Thursday, January 17, 2008

The Pain Upstairs That Makes His Eyeballs Ache

I saw in the bookstore today a hardcover collection called Lyrics by Sting, which I could have taken home for the mere sum of twenty-eight dollars. That's all it would have cost me to curl up by the fire with a weighty tome in my lap so that I could read the following:

I see you with me and all I want to be
Is dancing here with you in my arms
Forget the weather we should always be together
I'll always be a slave to your charms

Arms! Charms! Who would have ever thought to rhyme them?

In the introduction, Sting offers the following disarming disclaimer: "And while I've never seriously described myself as a poet, the book in your hands, devoid as it is of any musical notation, looks suspiciously like a book of poems." Then he cites T.S. Eliot.

Now, we here at OPC have enjoyed the Police's music for a long time, and while we would never think of Sting as without talent, the author of this book looks suspiciously like a wanker.

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