the sun's a strange light nothing grows right
anymore
scars on every stalk
whose mouth should i use to talk?
the force that marks the routine
temperature whatever degrees create the bad
thing
and lay our heads in it now
it's hard to punch the clock on the site where
production stopped
i'm just a warehouse filled with junk
some somethings for some someones tacking
time with tracking eye tectonic shifts one nerve
at a time
i lay my head in it a hundred plans to fortify
beige concrete foes on for miles
hiding cities under it fill my mouth with with
non-mouth spit there was a light at
the window there was light under the door but
it's not there anymore
(come on over get your shoes on put your feet on
baby come on over)
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