Exhaustion.
What a curse it is;
Awake yet better asleep,
And barely alive,
You just can't contribute to the great bee-hive of society;
And as we all know,
A working-class hero is something to be.
Yet the sound of a jet in the sky,
Or the silence of a fish in the sea,
Is no longer what seems of intrigue to me.

I'm lusting for an end to this linear life,
As delineated is a rare yet delicious spice;
Otherwise were in a great maze as a puppeteers mice;
And the differential unpredictability never fails to suffice,
Or entice.

So on the shores of the sun I question the rain;
As the sun is omnipotent and other weather insane,
And like a bird, space-ship, or a pilot and plane,
I use gravity as my balancing cane.

Or as the waves lick the shores of our earthly sands,
I walk alone on this beach and rest with a hand-stand,
As I see the clouds down below, and the ground up above;
With all of this strangeness,
I have fallen in love.

The flightier folk find solace in pain,
While I move around dancing in the rain;
And the long stories of life,
Or biography,
Perhaps understanding is always the key.

So question me in my fatigue and see what I say;
If you want the truth,
You can get it today;
I'm exhausted, and the truth is like the moons-ray;
It gives me an excuse to find a place in which to lay.

My mind is too musty,
And to wise to go pay,
For capitalist endeavor on such a fine day;
So it's over.