Beau

They took your picture
And hung it in their gallery,
Close beside the classical illusions they've collected.
And... there, beneath the counterpane of dust
And web of lies, my portrait too.

They took your number
And framed it in their gallery,
Hung between the mythical and puzzles they've neglected.
And... there, beneath the counterpane of dust
And web of lies my portrait too;
And there, beneath the isinglass that masks
And smudges light, my number too.

They took your address
And filed it in their gallery,
Hard against the library of cards they have selected.
And... there, beneath the counterpane of dust
And web of lies my portrait too;
And there, beneath the isinglass that masks
And smudges light, my number too;
And there, below the microscope of blind
Electric eyes, my address too.

They've got your number!