I'll write and say same words I've said
ten thousand times before
Until I don't believe
that I believe them anymore
Because riding on this carousel
means spinning one's wheels
into moist ground
thought I had some traction
but it seems I thought too soon--
So I am off of the rails
Off the wagon. Off to nowhere.
'Cuz it's, "Onward, lads,
to one more night spent
covering ground's familiar footsteps
and sheeting snowy sidewalks
in the dollars we don't have."
And we'll lay 'em kinda thick
press our prints in Presidents
pro bono comes advice
from the corners we can't heed,
but por argento comes the cure
we choose to **** our heads with
I'll pick a place, polish my boots
get far as my front steps
where I'll sit until the summer rolls around
and sweat rolls down in sheets
Short sheeted best hopes,
shortened thank-you notes
and lists of ****** quotes
lay around and resonate
on floors and facebooks,
tabletops
in summertime,
when it rolls around
But, now, it's winter
and we're all 364 1/4 resolutions older
--at 33 revolutions per minute,
and 16 ounces at a time,
we can almost cope.
Now, it's winter and the sheets are
still too warm
Now, it's winter and we sheet the
snowy sidewalks
in Presidential faces
in the dollars we don't have
and the cure we **** our heads with
keeps us safely insane
'Cuz in a world built by psychopaths,
the sane don't always last.
And, if I'm the last one out?
I'll sing a song and **** the lights before I go.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I'll write and say same words I've said
ten thousand times before
Until I don't believe
that I believe them anymore
Because riding on this carousel
means spinning one's wheels
into moist ground
thought I had some traction
but it seems I thought too soon--
So I am off of the rails
Off the wagon. Off to nowhere.
'Cuz it's, "Onward, lads,
to one more night spent
covering ground's familiar footsteps
and sheeting snowy sidewalks
in the dollars we don't have."
And we'll lay 'em kinda thick
press our prints in Presidents
pro bono comes advice
from the corners we can't heed,
but por argento comes the cure
we choose to **** our heads with
I'll pick a place, polish my boots
get far as my front steps
where I'll sit until the summer rolls around
and sweat rolls down in sheets
Short sheeted best hopes,
shortened thank-you notes
and lists of ****** quotes
lay around and resonate
on floors and facebooks,
tabletops
in summertime,
when it rolls around
But, now, it's winter
and we're all 364 1/4 resolutions older
--at 33 revolutions per minute,
and 16 ounces at a time,
we can almost cope.
Now, it's winter and the sheets are
still too warm
Now, it's winter and we sheet the
snowy sidewalks
in Presidential faces
in the dollars we don't have
and the cure we **** our heads with
keeps us safely insane
'Cuz in a world built by psychopaths,
the sane don't always last.
And, if I'm the last one out?
I'll sing a song and **** the lights before I go.
Request permission to use this poem