What melancholy nights We experience in the towns we call home Kerouac's Holy October is over And November hangs on the lips and minds Of the denizens of Autumn Earth
And when will I become the Angel-Headed Hipster I convinced myself I was prophesied to be Hipsters who bury themselves in the acoustic blues Of coffee shops Or are baptized by words In bars on Sunday nights
Why would Carl Solomon Ever leave Rockland If he's promised never to be alone there? And they say Neal Cassady died counting railroad tracks And did he want to die counting railroad tracks? And will I die counting railroad tracks too?
I so much want to emulate my heroes I fear it will **** me And if not a death of physicality Then a death of mentality Where I will cease to be Me
But who wouldn't love of life Of holy restlessness Who wants to limit their scope to A town A city A state And when the only state I feel I can truly call home Is Confusion I want it to be for a good enough reason
And if I am to die in a state like this Let me die counting railroad tracks As melancholy days Turn to melancholy nights