Lounging on the porch steps of Dylan's old--
Riding the wind, trying to catch a drift home
Waitin' for the moment when all the dust gets blown
Down in the ground, mixin' around, never to be found
History is hidden even from the cunning
of the Fox and the Hound
The crumbled past is unwritten as the future
Just waiting for the master to piece it together
Every moment holds clues of what to do
of what there is to be done
and what there is that was done
So fire the gun and have some fun
Let the lead fly leaving ripples in the sky
Dissipating, as time blows by
These gusts give life to our strife
The tension of lust
Bends in its motion
back and forth
the instrumentation of accumulation