they say the working man gets a good night's sleep
well I haven't much use for sleep
see, in this jungle of a world
you have to be sharp
your wits a finely honed machete
to cut through thick overgrowth
to reveal the salivating predators
waiting in ambush
so the old saying gets a little warped
everybody has to sleep once they're dead
and everybody has to die
these lines all have final destinations
so I'm trying to convert my train car
into a roaming idea factory
with somewhere by the open window in the corner
where I can kick my feet up and drink a cold one
these cigarettes and cups of coffee
are fighting valiantly to keep these eyes of mine from falling shut
but already I feel myself drifting as these words stream through me
flowing off to some distant stranger's dinner plate
my body is made of heavy wood
not much in the ways of joints and movement
but I beg you
to crack open my skull
and siphon out these silly little poems
from the swirling wreckage