I'll grab the year by its ******* nostrils
drag it through a mirth-soaked Autumn.
I smell another couch-bound month,
          so I'm churching up November nights
          with chips on sour luck

"Who're you to judge?"
Well, I'm the ****** with the gavel
                                          in my hand
and a burning, short fuse in each eye
And I'm sentencing this lengthy Fall
to muster up some wherewithal;
to keep me off the ******* pile of scraps
                                         'til next Spring.

Make this the Year of the Dog
                                     if you must
but understand I'm not a lamb
or a lion or an ox;
I'm a windy, cloudy Saturday,--
a kid from out Wyoming way--
The only guess I've got is
keeping still means getting lost

I'll grab the year by its ******* collar
shake until it bleeds the future.
Drag it out--I'm gonna drag it out
toss it on the pile of burning years
                                 to light my face.

Keeping still means getting lost.
Burning years'll light my way.