The bars and stars and cars and races.
The dates and states and quakes and phases.
The quirks and shakes and guilts that stack like spinning plates.
(Not everybody makes it.)

When they come crashing down, just look for a broom.
If you use your hands you'll get blood all over the floor,
(and we don't bleed over lost causes anymore.)

Please don't be pretty,
please don't be pretty,
please don't be pretty,
please don't be pretty* . . .

Hi, it's so nice to meet you.

*Ah ****.

Break it.

Like ashes from a burning sea
Her sandy beaches lay
Shored upon the land it coats
From forceful ocean wave

And as the tide draw up at dusk
The beach is coaxed within
Until tomorrow she must hide
Til tide retreats again