The Ballad of Elliott Armitage | THE MANY-COLOURED MAN

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[INTRO]
(upright piano, brief four-note figure, low harmonium)

[VERSE 1 — CONVERSATIONAL]
There once was a boy named Elliott Armitage,
Who could make a whole room laugh till it cried.
A king with bad knees. Then a song about leaving.
Same room. Different weather. The handkerchief side.
Bristol, then Bath with its excellent carpets.
London had teeth. He still liked the applause.
The gentlemen noticed the change in the weather.
Gentlemen do, when they're shopping for flaws.

[VERSE 2]
The Society for the Physick of the Passions—
Long name. Very short little word for the fee.
The Doctor with Gold Spectacles called it Translation:
Your grief in his ribs. Your relief with your tea.
The Woman Who Counted Pulse counted his answer.
The Glove-Man kept both of his hands out of sight.
Elliott wanted the money. The wonder.
And someone to sleep without screaming all night.

[CHORUS — LIGHT, ALMOST COMPLIMENTARY]
Give it to Elliott. Give it away.
“Elliott carries beautifully,” they'd say.
Put down your funeral. Pick up your hat.
Someone gets paid to be good at all that.

[VERSE 3 — QUICKER]
The first little sorrow went home in the morning.
The next left a teaspoon asleep in his chest.
No, not a teaspoon. The part that keeps knocking.
The bit of a guest that outstays all the rest.
Someone's delight made the wallpaper yellow.
Someone's old jealousy spoiled his good coat.
The Doctor said, “Temporary.” Lovely.
Then why was last Tuesday still stuck in his throat?

[CHORUS — BRISK, STRAINED]
Give it to Elliott. Give him the warning.
“Elliott clears,” they said, “by morning.”
Morning had teeth. And the teeth had a key.
Nobody mentioned how long it would be.

[VERSE 4 — SPOKEN-SUNG]
Seventeen ninety-four. Twenty-seven.
Too young for the cupboard of other men's dread.
“One final treatment. We'll close the reception.”
Closure. A nice little lid for his head.
He signed for the risk of a last stabilisation.
A shut door. A quiet cup. Sleep coming back.
The Glove-Man was already oiling the hinges.
There wasn't a lock. Just a widening crack.

[REFRAIN — DRY, INSISTENT]
Give it to Elliott. Elliott signed the paper.
“Close it,” they'd promised. A small enough favour.
Give it to Elliott. Elliott didn't sign that.
They'd written forever where closing had sat.

[BRIDGE — ACCELERATING PATTER]
(frame drum tightens, dissonant strings, electronic pulses enter)
The General Reception. All channels together.
No going home at the end of the weather.
One mouth full of weddings, two hands full of wakes;
Somebody's terror was counting his shakes.
Red in the kettle. Blue under the bread.
The room started feeling whatever he bled.
Somebody loved somebody wrongly. Too much.
Somebody's hate had the shape of a touch.
Yellow kept laughing. The grief wouldn't wait.
Every door open. No latch on the gate.
The Woman kept counting. The Doctor said, “Stay.”
I didn't agree—
Elliott. Anyway.

[BREAKDOWN — RAPID, CRACKING]
Give it to Elliott. Give him the lot.
Give him the feeling the feelings forgot.
Give him the never. The always. The stay.
Give him the morning that won't go away.
Nothing went missing. Nothing gave way.
Everything stayed.
Elliott went grey.

[INTERLUDE]
(hard cut, silence)

[VERSE 5 — LOW, STILL, SINGLE-TRACKED]
The Glove-Man reached to start the circle again.
Elliott killed him. No borrowed will.
The others lay dead. That one was a choice.
He remembers the choice. He remembers it still.

[FINAL VERSE — CONVERSATIONAL]
(modern bass pulse, piano and strings return)
Years went past with their excellent labels.
“The Motley Man.” Something to file with the blame.
He kept the useful bit. Motley. That fitted.
Let the drawer keep the paperwork. He kept the name.
Motley bought oranges. Motley missed breakfast.
Motley put somebody's hat on a shelf.
The Society's gone. All the weather is walking.
He answers to Motley. He answers for himself.

[OUTRO — SPOKEN, FAINTLY AMUSED]
Anyway. He lived.
(brief four-note piano figure)

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[INTRO] (upright piano, brief four-note figure, low harmonium) [VERSE 1 — CONVERSATIONAL] There once was a boy named Elliott Armitage, Who could make a whole room laugh till it cried. A king with bad knees. Then a song about leaving. Same room. Different weather. The handkerchief side. Bristol, then Bath with its excellent carpets. London had teeth. He still liked the applause. The gentlemen noticed the change in the weather. Gentlemen do, when they're shopping for flaws. [VERSE 2] The Society for the Physick of the Passions— Long name. Very short little word for the fee. The Doctor with Gold Spectacles called it Translation: Your grief in his ribs. Your relief with your tea. The Woman Who Counted Pulse counted his answer. The Glove-Man kept both of his hands out of sight. Elliott wanted the money. The wonder. And someone to sleep without screaming all night. [CHORUS — LIGHT, ALMOST COMPLIMENTARY] Give it to Elliott. Give it away. “Elliott carries beautifully,” they'd say. Put down your funeral. Pick up your hat. Someone gets paid to be good at all that. [VERSE 3 — QUICKER] The first little sorrow went home in the morning. The next left a teaspoon asleep in his chest. No, not a teaspoon. The part that keeps knocking. The bit of a guest that outstays all the rest. Someone's delight made the wallpaper yellow. Someone's old jealousy spoiled his good coat. The Doctor said, “Temporary.” Lovely. Then why was last Tuesday still stuck in his throat? [CHORUS — BRISK, STRAINED] Give it to Elliott. Give him the warning. “Elliott clears,” they said, “by morning.” Morning had teeth. And the teeth had a key. Nobody mentioned how long it would be. [VERSE 4 — SPOKEN-SUNG] Seventeen ninety-four. Twenty-seven. Too young for the cupboard of other men's dread. “One final treatment. We'll close the reception.” Closure. A nice little lid for his head. He signed for the risk of a last stabilisation. A shut door. A quiet cup. Sleep coming back. The Glove-Man was already oiling the hinges. There wasn't a lock. Just a widening crack. [REFRAIN — DRY, INSISTENT] Give it to Elliott. Elliott signed the paper. “Close it,” they'd promised. A small enough favour. Give it to Elliott. Elliott didn't sign that. They'd written forever where closing had sat. [BRIDGE — ACCELERATING PATTER] (frame drum tightens, dissonant strings, electronic pulses enter) The General Reception. All channels together. No going home at the end of the weather. One mouth full of weddings, two hands full of wakes; Somebody's terror was counting his shakes. Red in the kettle. Blue under the bread. The room started feeling whatever he bled. Somebody loved somebody wrongly. Too much. Somebody's hate had the shape of a touch. Yellow kept laughing. The grief wouldn't wait. Every door open. No latch on the gate. The Woman kept counting. The Doctor said, “Stay.” I didn't agree— Elliott. Anyway. [BREAKDOWN — RAPID, CRACKING] Give it to Elliott. Give him the lot. Give him the feeling the feelings forgot. Give him the never. The always. The stay. Give him the morning that won't go away. Nothing went missing. Nothing gave way. Everything stayed. Elliott went grey. [INTERLUDE] (hard cut, silence) [VERSE 5 — LOW, STILL, SINGLE-TRACKED] The Glove-Man reached to start the circle again. Elliott killed him. No borrowed will. The others lay dead. That one was a choice. He remembers the choice. He remembers it still. [FINAL VERSE — CONVERSATIONAL] (modern bass pulse, piano and strings return) Years went past with their excellent labels. “The Motley Man.” Something to file with the blame. He kept the useful bit. Motley. That fitted. Let the drawer keep the paperwork. He kept the name. Motley bought oranges. Motley missed breakfast. Motley put somebody's hat on a shelf. The Society's gone. All the weather is walking. He answers to Motley. He answers for himself. [OUTRO — SPOKEN, FAINTLY AMUSED] Anyway. He lived. (brief four-note piano figure)

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