I'm stuck in an education
If I am am I an institute in self-conservation
Conserving my thoughts and energy for the meditating heralding change in the drop sleeves of doing something better with plants
In the autumn, knowing of the seasons and the hurling flings that throw Fred's problems at and Harry hurt ya'
Rolling up the sleeves, with the punches doing something better for a change than fighting the little wings
Gaining ambiguity, ambition in this from the little wing, and redacting resting war pieces, once again in a dark alley away
Sold out by the Ganges, we are at the back alley once again
Where it used to flood in the underwhelming light of the free talking, and are we really doing this praying in the freakish dark
If you want to **** yourself in film-noir, then, do it wicking light, flickering cigarette and luminescent wickedness and gumption in grumpy faces, Eliot Ness
Shot the mess down, in the pool of blood
Shot the mess in, down in the pool
Everywhere, everyone was trying to make sense of the unfurling crew crawling through strange crew
Cash rules everyone around messenger of peace, mirages of the sage temerity of the herald of emerald Gerald Ford tides, shortest eyebrows in the quickest drugs for the lasting merging
Of mussing and sullied feelings, where the cars roam
Thouest shiny car, where do you remember to reach India, the houseplants wait for your arrival, blind in love