The passing hours are a blind man's breeze
In the double-breast chest of the day
She's off getting laid on the flying trapeeze
I'm the ghost of a man in the way
Shooting laughterous glances and drop-dead glares
From my post by the side of the street
Which are swallowed up by exhaust-fume snares
And trod under spit-shined feet
I've got more to do than watch you fuck
While the stars of the afternoon fall
I'll hop the next axle of the next passing truck
And head for a nobody town
Once there I'll declare myself King of the Fall
And swallow dried leaves from the trees
And ostritch my head as the parks turn to malls
And the saplings fall broke to their knees
I'm no antidote for another man's love
You're no sword to drive into my gut
I'm a seeing man's hand in a blind man's glove
Praying godless to bust out this rut
And as for your eyes and the trails that they blazed
And the scars your lips left on my skin
They'll be out of my system in a couple of days
When I check myself out of your in.
Copyright (c) 2000 Gabriel Squailia
| 
