It’s a masquerade and a new star rising, all cheekbones and mirrors on
old college green. Church bells clang against static. Poor Alan, for his
integrity. And Anne, halfway down the stairs, her hair dark, and her
smile gleaming—I’m Anne Townley. A new star rising. No wonder
about the roses, really. And no wonder about the Duchess—no
wonder about any—
A new star rising: the youth out of time slain by taunting conga; the
pathetic cherub almost too much himself—more gallery than man,
bound for sparkling boyish Wilby—but neither quite there yet: not in
their black tie and blue t-shirt—not with their doe-eyed humiliation—
not with Anne’s frock blushing lilac just as all the rest goes wrong—
take it—take—
oh, back to bed, why don’t we; forget Edward’s crisp comeuppance—
back to Anne’s room, and to Imogen: to the houseplants and the
Rothko print, their sweet morning hair, the sparse caring breakfast;
to the off-white warmth of Imogen’s shirt with its stripes red as
Anne’s silk robe—and the towel and the phone and her first dress
and all the roses—
the roses—the bloody roses—off we are again: a new star—a new star—
a new star—that bolt-blue pre-burying gaze: coward darling and you
might read the play you’ve cast an unknown as the Duchess do you love me
do you love me and what do you do when denied the thing you’ve
demanded forget the tricks why didn’t you tell me a new star rising Lucy
tells me you’re an actor
Lucy tells me oh Jesus we’ve gotta make some more cuts
a new star Imogen it’s me it’s
just a joke a new star
and a new star who the hell’s Anne Townley
she’s spinning gold through the Oxford dawn
a new star
I demand satisfaction a new star
a new star
a new— NO THROUGH ROAD
a new star let’s forget the tricks—
a new star
and gimme the good stuff
It’s a masquerade and a new star rising, all cheekbones and mirrors on
old college green. Church bells clang against static. Poor Alan, for his
integrity. And Anne, halfway down the stairs, her hair dark, and her
smile gleaming—I’m Anne Townley. A new star rising. No wonder
about the roses, really. And no wonder about the Duchess—no
wonder about any—
A new star rising: the youth out of time slain by taunting conga; the
pathetic cherub almost too much himself—more gallery than man,
bound for sparkling boyish Wilby—but neither quite there yet: not in
their black tie and blue t-shirt—not with their doe-eyed humiliation—
not with Anne’s frock blushing lilac just as all the rest goes wrong—
take it—take—
oh, back to bed, why don’t we; forget Edward’s crisp comeuppance—
back to Anne’s room, and to Imogen: to the houseplants and the
Rothko print, their sweet morning hair, the sparse caring breakfast;
to the off-white warmth of Imogen’s shirt with its stripes red as
Anne’s silk robe—and the towel and the phone and her first dress
and all the roses—
the roses—the bloody roses—off we are again: a new star—a new star—
a new star—that bolt-blue pre-burying gaze: coward darling and you
might read the play you’ve cast an unknown as the Duchess do you love me
do you love me and what do you do when denied the thing you’ve
demanded forget the tricks why didn’t you tell me a new star rising Lucy
tells me you’re an actor
Lucy tells me oh Jesus we’ve gotta make some more cuts
a new star Imogen it’s me it’s
just a joke a new star
and a new star who the hell’s Anne Townley
she’s spinning gold through the Oxford dawn
a new star
I demand satisfaction a new star
a new star
a new— NO THROUGH ROAD
a new star let’s forget the tricks—
a new star
and gimme the good stuff