I don't care what you say
This is not a bad idea
I don't care if I'm not ready
This is a good idea
I can't hear you telling me otherwise
That this is not a good idea
Here I am, I'm doing just fine

You were right, this was a bad idea

"They" say the sense of smell is closely linked with memory
I never know how else to say where I get that--
Does Eva Green playing an epidemiologist in "Perfect Sense" count?
Probably not, but there is confirmation
in the smell of coffee each morning
My dad made coffee in an old drip-brew;
My mom makes coffee in a French press
I assume my dad still uses a drip brew--
it's the one he used the last time I visited him
That smell brings back family memories, when
everything seemed good
everything seemed whole
the pieces all fit, and there were no cracks
even though I know now it was just a facade
and couldn't last, and it leaves an ugly aftertaste
Like bitter coffee from an old drip-brew

9/11 inside job/Lizard people stealing jobs
FBI-COINTELPRO/Starting fires in Waco
Two guys, not one in OKC/LBJ killed Kennedy
Earth is flat, NASA lies/when will you open your eyes?

(Chorus) We didn't start the fire! But we're getting ready for the New World Order! The situation's getting dire/So let's get our guns and patrol the border!

Jews and banks, Rothchilds rule/Actually it's lizards, fool!
High school satans, bio-weapons/Feudal system brought to rule
Y3K, Matrix glitch, the UN blueprints for making slaves/
Flouride in tap water IS TURNING THE FREAKIN' FROGS GAY!

(Chorus) We didn't start the fire! But it's too late now, 'cause they already know/We gotta get ourselves prepared now! One day soon the whole thing's gonna blow!

Your music makes me cry
But please don't be offended
I am glad to be have lived for a short time
At the same time that you have lived
And have shared the same earth
Though our roots are a thousand miles apart
and our lives two decades separate
And yet your music makes me cry
But please, it's a good thing!
The simple progressions, the slight turns
Of wrists to pluck strings and
Turn wood and wounded bronze into a story
It's a good thing to cry, isn't it?
I wish I could have soothed your burns
And helped take on your burdens
To have stopped the fire
Or at least give you a better muse
But then what else kind of music
would you have made?
Maybe it doesn't matter
so all there is left to say is:
Your music makes me cry
and I wouldn't have it
any other way

There is no name
to this little thing I have written

Names allow us
to master our world

But sometimes a name cannot be given

So we are left with

a

simple
image

thought

that is

word-less

A feeling deeper

Than any name can give

sails across rivers
calm and living like the Nile or the Amazon
rugged like the Colorado once was
The creaking metal vessel driven by steam
always moving at full clip against the current
churns a wake of dark silt behind it

I ask my captain permission
to disembark and he smiles
and gives me the wheel