I wince as I winch up my eyelids
and the day lumbers up from behind
to grab onto tin cannery row
where
the heads are hung low and
the rent's even lower than that.

The laughter's still here fuelled
by narcotics and beer,
Capone's
found his true home at last.

There are tears and you
know it too,
who among many have
never shed any?

Time flicks a snotball,
a sleep or a wake up call?
it's us who decide, but
some like the slide and
remain.

When the tide turns again
Avalon burns again waiting
for Arthur.

They're heroes and crooks
fake *** in real books where
real time is no time to
delay.

The ache lingers on
the last hope has gone
the lights are as low
as the rent
and
the ache
burns a hole in
the nighttime of
tin cannery row.