Icelandic Fiddle Music

Fiddling on the radio at 4 AM.  
Then a singer with an Icelandic accent, maybe.  
You’re lying in bed fully clothed.  
Tonight was a banquet you chose not to attend.
Hey everyone said community demands it but you weren’t buying.
You weren’t convinced there was value in community.

All these people coming through town.
They say they love you.
Not a one comes knocking for you.
You wanna see them you gotta get your butt up and see them.
Get to the banquet.  
The banquet you hate.

Icelandic fiddlers on a 5 AM radio show.
Kids these days.
Fully clothed and lying in bed.
Lying in beds without you.
Naked or clothed lying in bed liars.
That singer whose accent you can’t place.

You don’t want to tell anyone you’re dying do you?
You want them to figure it out for themselves.
You want to hear the words from their contrite mouths:

We missed you at the banquet and came to see you.
We didn’t know.
We’ll undress you now.
We’ll sit or lie with you all night.
We adore that old-time Icelandic fiddling and singing.
We adore you too.

You hate.
You fear.
You don’t go to banquets anymore.
Your teeth are disgusting.
Your teeth are falling out.
You are exactly as old as you feel:

as old as Iceland.
As old as a fiddle.
As old as a gaptoothed singer.
As old as the weird music of just before 6 AM.
Twice as old as some of these meddling kids.
As old as throwing them out into the street naked from the bed

where you are better off
fully clothed
and alone
listening
to this crap and

waiting for sleep.