I.

You've been dreaming to sleep, fifty years, still waiting for a kiss,
still waiting to see how much longer he'll take this, and leave it alone,
never live off a bone, throw your ice down his pants from your crystal throne,
and feel lucky where you're standing so you'll take the chance alone.


II.

It was never in the plan, God's got a better hand that he's forcing
down a throat and pulling out a better man, wearing a top hat, a smile and
goosefeather north face; a red bowtie for style, lucky rabbit starts the race,
and they're off, three churches, one steeple; down the mud mile to the rhythm of people

clapping teeth and stomping hands to the rising rumble stands,
where it all went down and around in a wide angle sham.


III.

You want your tracks to blow up but you've got a short fuse,
thought you'd cut a new one, but you're fighting to lose.
Think it will light? 'Think you're right, 'cuz your joint is so tight,
but you're blowin lines out of spite, and at the end of the night

you're hitting all the wrong bongs and your face is getting long
when you wanted to start up a bomb track sing along.
You're with God (knows who when, but wherever you've gone, )
don't stop writing--stop biting, or you'll never move on.


IV.

It's just like I told you. You're still living the old you.
When you jump out of the sky I hope you like the short view.
Hope you light the short fuse, hope you're in it to lose,
because that's all you'll get when you're in it for you.

02/28/2006

Author's Note: In average, I agree with myself.

Posted on 02/28/2006
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen