With the little rain
wash your sins away
before this weekend,
before you miss the chance.
But still, next week
it won't even stop:
what the cash bought,
'llget us flocking
past the parking lot
down the trail to our
Octopus' Garden 'neath the waves.
Maybe my nails won't grow back
and I'll be talkative instead.
Stop my choking on pocket lint,
bury the bone, unbusy my head.
Everything I do in this Modern World
supports some institution, thus condition.
Looking for passion or just something,
hafta look for what little I believe in—
not this but next weekend.
"There's a stranger in your life,"
a fortune reading tells, then
feeling my legs are useless,
can't kick my way to the surface,
can' kick one habit for a moment,
a car could carry me around then.
It's a five day weekend, no end, yes.
Best birthday bash, hands down, no contest.
Newly arrived old faces join, going to the show;
some more to come soon, some to soon go.
Tonight we revel in our brother's song,
we'll keep the day young and night long.
Tomorrow, we hope to sleep forever in a day,
catch our breaths and try to eat back our strength.
Then, Thursday.