Angela Calling

The many faces of a politician - one for every phase of the moon or flick of the brush.

ANGELA CALLING
Words and Music, Desmond Grundy

Last call of the night
Cold and windy outside
Hear the number ring
Coming through the static on the line
Pull my hat up. Look down at the ground
Tuck my chin in. Squint my eye.
Almost human, learning to smile
Bill collector, get me that file

Next call’s in my ear
Asking for my name and my id
I look up at the clock
While bringing up a name on a machine
She tells me I’m wrong
but she owes me the money
Tells me, ‘don’t call me again’
Almost human, eyes all around
Bill collector, making that sound

This kind of delight
Where I’m not in charge of myself
Is so compromised
That I have no fear for my job.
Offers her body, almost for nothing
Some things I'm not so sorry I said
Words ringing up and down the aisle
Bill collector, broken speed dial