that jazz bops man like a stereo spider
i'll tell you man, like a three tone jail bird
silent parts exploding the songs into liquid
then getting cold, the ice shattering teeth
rock's more primal, screaming and thirsty honey
hardly ever breaks the noise, elevation defined
withered and rough, the skin of dirty peasants
clear, squinting eyes hollowing out the blind lights
folk makes me want to walk, walk until my feet hurt man
resting by the state park signs and tuning guitars by ear
writing history on bar napkins, moist on the edges
wadded and pocketed, melody the reluctant foe
or click a clock by the dreaded and raggaed sounds
going on all night, after all day, never before noon
crying for mothers and children and the lost of this world
tragic, the daily encounter, sad souls of islands
