"trams" poems
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
The unknown city
Enveloped in dark
So black even light would fear
She walks on barely visible
Standing still felt more frightening
She feels numb
She looks down and her legs missing
She see busses and cars
And trams and trains
Being driven by people and their eyes missing
There was sky but weather
There were trees but leaves
There were owls but feathers
There were bats all crying
She wanted to breathe and her nose missing
A strange sound plays somewhere around
Squeaks of abandoned seesaws and laughing clown
Playing an opera of horror
She wants to scream
Her voice choked
An immortal horror takes over
She hears a ring
A doorbell ring
She breaks her sleep
And realize it a dream
The bell kept ringing
She goes to the door
The door won't open
She looks at her bed
She is deep asleep
She shakes her up
She won't wake up
Tears roll on her cheeks her cry was missing
She wants to scream
Her voice was missing
She opens the door
The other side was missing
She turns around
She was missing
In the unknown city
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
Monday
Bleak unoriginal
Mondays
Where there is no
Whipped cream or cherries,
Hot chocolate sauce or
Peanut sprinkles
Only
***** wrecked trams
Absent faces &
Dreams of freedom
From hell
That is
This is
These are
The Monday Blues
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
If the Scots
get independence
will we get better ****
I'd vote for that.
Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ...
hospitals, schools, fish,
whisky, natural energy
blah blah
The good folk in Scotland
have been drip-fed the
worst **** in history:
coated in chemicals
bath rinsed
molasses
spare car tyre
plastic
flotsam
***
seriously
No wonder -
Bammed (right up)
Givin it
Havin it
Lovin it
is why
bands & DJs
Love to Play:
'up for it'
'Hey MoJo's
share some of
that MTV love'
anything that's called
Council Hash
and accepted as the norm
reeks of class politics;
ah they won't mind
the **** end o that
they're the Scots
The Scottish Government
should embrace
a new Scotland
and the people in it
We want lots of things:
one of which is
better ****
Crime will drop:
- sniffing car tyres for a hit
- sales of Buckfast
will fund the entire
South East of England.
Scotland could lead the world
in upcycling as
Rizla fails to meet demand.
Our days would be so radically different;
auto flexi time
carbon neutral
trams with comfy seats
systematically
mathematically
go faster
than walking:
a mode of choice
I'd vote for that
...
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
In memoriam Asher and Franklin
Farmers flocked to Blossburg's mines
willing their abandoned plows
to perpetual dust and rain.
Burrowing into the Tioga hills
with Keagle picks and sledges,
they filled their trams with rough cut coal.
Black diamonds - carved for waiting boilers
of New England mills and trains
and Pennsylvania's winter stoves.
Brothers, Frank and Asher swung their picks
in tunnels deep beneath the hills
and brushed away the clouds of soot.
Their coughs at first seemed harmless
enough as from nagging colds or flus -
but deepened as their lungs turned black.
Pain and choking drove them to their beds
where no medic's art could aid them.
Then the coroner came to seal their eyes.
A stonecutter's chisel marks their brevity
on an marble graveyard obelisk
that pays no homage to their sacrifice.
September, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
public transport
***** in every way
the trains and the trams
run on a timetable of delay
the public using these **** facilities
should protest to the transport authorities
here's a draft you can use
off your butts fellas
or you'll be in the news
no mucking around
no stalling we'll take
extract the digit
for the traveling
public's sake
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
The Great Falls,
was a massive
clone of ice;
yet still
her waters
poured forth
in roaring waves
over the ebb
of the river.
Sliding into
a frozen crevasse,
down an icy bar,
I land wet,
chilled and numb
from the duration
of the decent
and the soul
piercing cold.
On the landing,
the carcasses
of industrial waste
were encased
in a frozen loam.
The giant
mill wheel
locked in place,
entombed
in a glacier
of ice.
It made
good sense
to found
this city
on an
industrious
bluff.
The Great Falls
spun the wheels
that powered
vast manufactures.
Shoots
and trams
shot flumes
of water
down
every
street.
Everyman
was a master
of his
cottage industry,
forging bullets
constructing
locomotives,
spinning
the finest silk
from the
most exotic
foreign worms.
But the machines
shut down.
The handiwork
of learned men,
entrepreneurs,
urban planners,
engineers
and artisans
now encased
in frozen rust.
Barely a tool
could be used
to produce
a product
or plumb
a line.
A simple
hand tool
could not
be lifted
without
betraying
its purpose.
A society
of useful
manufactures
frozen shut;
dissolving
into bankrupt
liquidation;
so I left
my home
on Chianci Street
and caught the first
Paterson Plank coach
to the Hoboken Ferry.
I would be in
Manhattoes
by nightfall.
The morning travels
consumed thoughts
of future prospects.
The
silk mill
forever
closed.
The industry
of my home
city,
dead.
This weaver
of fine silk
had lost
his loom.
For William Carlos Williams
From: Vesuvia, 1997
Music Selection:
Yo-Yo Ma & Silk Road Ensemble,
Arabian Waltz
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
like a deer drinking from a stream
in the clearing
I am clearing
time away
I am the wolf
amongst women
I am a jar
half full
I am residue
on the sink edge
dusty, smudged
I watch people on trams
I watch people on buses
I don't smile
I watch the deer drinking
I play with my hair
I stare
I am the wolf
from afar
I am
I am waiting
for the clearing to wilt
and stream to dry up
I watch the deer
I am
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 7:09 PM UTC
Hanging by the post box red front door
Since 71
A long trench coat, shade of green
With flat cap on top, peak smudged
From fingers that had gripped
Pulled it from a head,
Both, an umbra of post war world gloom
To the boy, now the man who looks at it
Memories contained within its pockets and creases
Of boiled sweets handed to his bairns
Of neatly folded plastic bags,
For the necessary emergencies
He was so convinced he’d meet
Of hands that belonged to the coat,
Strong, firm that tousled this man’s hair,
Yet gentle and playful, full of fun
Of the head that wore the cap, the grin,
The mischievous glint, when his Peg wasn’t looking
As he slipped some coins into this boy’s tiny hand
Stories told, of times before the war,
Of stopping trams, driving pigs through N’castle
As a butcher’s Boy, on slaughter day
Of the day he met his Meg, down by the coast
Of showing off, and coming a cropper
And oh, how his Meg laughed
A coat holding so much of the past,
Of shipbuilding by the dark, ***** Tyne,
Boats that loomed over the houses
Taking this boy to see them launch
Dreaming of exotic, oriental places
He would never visit
Of betting slips, crumpled in pockets
From long gone nags, who caught his eye
Torn envelopes with Megs writing,
Bread - brown, tin of carnation milk (small)
Rich tea, sultanas, flour – plain
A use for his plastic bags,
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
The sea lies solid under ice,
The blizzard seldom stops;
The glögi's running freely
In friendly coffee-shops;
The trams still run and life goes on
And still I can't remember
Why no-one ever calls a song
"Helsinki in November".
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
it was the city we talked about in those long nights when we had nothing to say, lying in your bed and memorising the way the dark painted shadows across our cheekbones and jaws. melbourne, you would whisper.
a city far away and cultured and quaint and brimming with old buildings and trams and coffee houses and american things like seven-elevens and starbucks.
it was different being there with you. much more different being there without you.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Doubtful of the future
As our wooden furniture
Creaks and cracks
Like wounded soldiers sutures
House on the edge of the water
The Earth shows to
Only be getting hotter
Heaven may only be a starter
I've asked all my questions
Meandering in drunken perspiration
The moon hangs laughing
Behind my back
Where I was before this
I can't keep track
Trams, metros, terror colored in streetlights
All souls around me barely giving off light
Piano man plays with broken fingernails
Screaming he's guiltier than all that is wrong or right
Could have beens
Would have beens
Should have beens
Sticky black tar regret
Stare at the sun and
Unveil the lie they've
Been telling you all along
I wrote something
That looked like something
That came before
I wrote that other something
And when I read that something
And read the other something
Both seemed to be about
Nothing and nothing
As well as
All of the above
Staring at the stove top
She lays upstairs in bed
Silence atop these fingertips
Secrets flying high
In this unstrung kite
A cloud stubs his toe
The sun makes His move
I feel like a real man
Acting like I have a plan
Too fast some days
Other days
Too slow
Proving routine
Is the curse of the
Owner's of the silver spoon
I hang on the edge of
A smooth, round beer bottle
My hardened fingertips
Show to be slipping
I'm lost in a sea of forgiveness
Frantically keeping my head afloat
While smiling to myself that I left
The life vests tied upon the boat
My need for revenge has
Sunk into The Black Sea
Bitterness was such a boring feeling
Like an old ring I was always wearing
I hand out my pleases
Like ripped off store candies
Everybody's got their maybes ready
I look at my hand and see its steady
This day
This month
This year or so away
From home is
Showing me
Only I
Know where I need to go
Let the snow fall
The government post what they will
High up where we can't reach on the wall
All will be remembered
All will be forgiven one day
The last man to laugh
Will be
He who believes not
In His own trap
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
The well is dry
Tonight
Not much thought
Nowhere to go
But sleep
Or
Drink
The well is dry
Tonight and
I envision black crocodiles
With razors for
Teeth, chuckling underneath
Their putrid, blood stink breath
Their belly's tanning
In the sun like I wish I could
Pepper shakers for
Limbs caring for
The war sick wounded
Sounding like the whoosh
Of the first windy roar
From an atomic explosion
Naked and writhing and waiting
For death to crack his knuckles
The big sleep at last
Where no light can be seen
Taking comfort in the new, familiar darkness
At night, when there isn't much going on,
I see the water start to boil over
The food begin to rot in its bowls
Lakes churn from no wind or rain or boat
Only spinning to feel its means has an end
Here, the fish weep into their scaly fins
And night - when there isn't much going on -
With the bars all open and the churches all closed
And the streets bursting with de-salienation tools
Branded with love and hate and indecency;
Where matters pressed are things worth dying for
The well
Is dry
Tonight
And the trains and trams pass by
A ***** dies
A cop makes a young woman cry
Yes,
There is not much
Going on
Tonight
But there are still things happening
I try to hear them
I get lucky every now and again
When there isn't much going on,
The dust of the dirt
Fills my nostrils, making it
Hard to breathe and I see
Snakes have bitten my feet,
Though they do not swell and
Laughter of one who once loved me,
Has turned to the ringing in my ears
Clouds form the forward march
And the fortress has buckled down
This place does not need to make sense
Here, I can be alone with no one but
Who I was before and who I wish to be
The well is dry tonight
But, I continue seeking
I keep on
Digging
Picking
Brushing away the dust
And wiping away the blood
The well is dry tonight
And I try to keep on
Drinking
Thinking
Blinking
Anyways
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
I woke early
this morning in Lisbon
before the birds chirped
the traffic shattered
the silent room in the
Sao Bento Guesthouse
and the old tram
struggled, groaned up
the steep hill
She stirred beside me
even and measured breaths
I turned on the white light
and read Pessoa
and Florbella Espanca
poets of the past
of the hilled city
split poetic personalities
the one
she, the other,
a killer of
her self
"Abre os elhos e encara a vida!"*
advice not taken
today we'll walk those hills
ride those trams
and eat seafood along the Tagus
as we ignore
the passing
of our lives
*open your eyes and face your life
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
That’s Wakefield out the window,
kept between four corner walls
landing flat and rising tall,
this is how it walks and that’s the way it goes
and its red brick timber lined walls
are pieced back together
with a forever piece of wire tether.
That same wire would have led down
back streets and alleyways,
turning into a hardened mess of grey lined,
grey hound steel,
that ran around as tracks for the trams,
the Chantry Chapel couple
waiting patiently with their pram
to cross the street,
to cross the bridge,
to get back home-
put the milk in the fridge.
I can hear you cry, Wakefield
your calls are cast so near.
I can hear you cry Wakefield,
your fear distilled within the hum of the traffic outside,
spilled onto the road deaf and dead,
caught within the grooves of another tyre's tread.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Trams
Knitted smoke
And rosary of towns
Unspotted in the rear of the lazy sky
Dreams getting grasps lackeyed
And ***** moon branded with loneliness
Smile tiling what left pariah .
Those survives the end as a woundless dagger
Did anyone ever stands ?
In front of the smoke
When He enters the mind carousel
Speck in the line of windloot
A walk to vanishes ....
All dare to trip ,
After the sundown curfew
When we lost an another episode of terrors ....
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
I heart Blackpool, engraved tankards
Little old men & full kit wankers.
Bracing wind with rain & sleet
******* blowing in the street.
In Blackpool.
Kiss me quick & squeeze me slow.
Madame Tussauds, pier-end show
Grubby track-suits, baseball caps
Homeless people search for scraps.
In Blackpool.
Sun and rain, blue & grey.
All four seasons in one day.
Drug ravaged transients dressed in rags.
Haggard old women smoke their ****
In Blackpool.
Flashing lights & lots of noise
Flirty girls & drunken boys
Abba tributes, yesterday’s stars,
Rattling trams & clapped out cars.
In Blackpool.
Penny arcades & bingo halls.
Amusement rides & market stalls.
Drag Queens flaunt with macho men.
Stripper seduces drunken hen.
In Blackpool.
Rooms by the hour, rooms by the night.
A £1 burger & a £2 pint
Rolling sea & golden sand.
Lowest life expectancy in the land.
In Blackpool.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
IF ONLY THE WAR WOULD DIE
If only the War would
die
but it lives on
crawls across the mind
the everyday things
infected
people in trams and buses
wearing my dead friend's face
until everyone
becomes him.
A car backfires
and I hit the ground
to the amazement and amusement
of passersby who pass by.
It's what kept me
alive.
This the curse
of survival.
Even birds wear
my dead friend's face.
Even his face
in a flower's petals.
He falls in the rain
again and again and again
stranded on the wire
like a ****** broken puppet
the wind
pulling his strings
dying for days
on end.
"Die you ****** bugger...die!"
I beg him.
But he refuses
to listen.
Three men dead
by ****** fire
trying to get him
me I got it in the leg.
I see him rot
stage by stage
the secrets of the grave
open for all to see.
I see the rats
gnawing at his dear face
until only his skeleton
grins at me.
His voice forever
calling to me.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
Entered in the place
Sometime around
No time
My voice had gone
And there was a leak of
Green mold in the wall
And across the hall
I could hear the screams of
Either passion or
Real pain
Outside the trams
Roared past &
The way they whined
Sounded like a young dog
Screaming or a little
Girl whining -
The sound
Woke me up
For the first
Month.
But the Autumn smell
Warm with eggs, beer & pasta sauce
Started to fill up the place
And slowly it all
Started to feel
Like the temporary home
It was meant to be
And when your supposed
To settle down in
One place you see that
You were never meant to
Be that kind of person because
It drives you mad seeing
The same four walls everyday
In and out down the chute made
Of concrete, electricity & will power
How do people do it
For so long
Without going insane?
I don't know
I hope to never know
Or maybe I already have,
And I don't know it...
Perhaps
I'm already
On the other side
Of that
Crazy River.
Soon
The place started to
Fill up with things
That looked the same
As what was in my brain;
Things that kept me alive
And kept me awake and
Steadied my brain from
Tilting to far to the right or
The left or front to back
Then the windows
Started opening
Cool fresh air coming in
Like a rushing stream
From a place I knew as
"Nowhere"
Drunks outside
Passing in the night
Me one them
Some of the time &
Me - an observer -
The other times
But
As I watched I saw
Little bits of me in them
More and more and
I started to re-evaluate what
Kind of night stalker
I wanted to be
These walkers - some at least -
Can't crane to see the stars
Or hear the way the tram passes by them
Much like
The young ladies in the tight
Jeans with their heels clicking and
Their lips licking just so
Gentle & evil like they always
Seem to do
I was at
A loss of everything
As I watched myself
Wander to the next
Hole that would
Never be my or
Their last.
At quite a loss.
Losing is winning
And winning is losing
When you go right
You also go left
There is no escaping
This mad
Crippling
Self-obsessed readers digest
Crazed, murderous, treacherous &
*** blistering place
We are here standing
On the brink of
Digital beauty,
Sharing all and being all
And seeing pictures
That people in the past
Would never get to see or imagine
Simply because of this
****** little machine in front of me.
The trade off
From one generation
To
The next.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
It is the twisted teal torrents of water
That gush through its heart.
It is the paint on the walls
And the Ancient museums full of art.
It’s the beauty of the city center
The shops and the boutiques.
It’s the bells of the green trams,
Winding down the cobblestone streets.
It’s the wind on my back
And the sun on my face
It’s the way when I go out,
Hours are lost without a trace
It’s the people floating down the river
In the heat of the year.
It’s my feeling of security,
Because here there’s nothing to fear.
It’s all the unique traditions,
Passed down from generations.
It’s the faces of the people,
One from every nation.
It’s the feeling I get
When I just walk around.
When I take in what’s around me
The sights and the sounds.
It’s the knowledge that
In this city I have grown.
It’s all the things I’ve learned,
That I may never have known.
It’s when I sit still in my room,
And know that there’s so much left to explore.
It’s the opportunities I have
To do things I’ve never done before.
It’s the archaic beige bridge
That stands down town.
It’s that path we like to walk,
Or that cute cafe we found.
It’s those beautiful books I bought,
The ones I know I’ll never read.
It’s the happiness that comes
With the quiet life I lead.
It’s how much more there is to discover,
So much beauty I’ve yet to see.
It’s that feeling of contentment
When you know you’re where you’re meant to be
The more I learn about this city,
The more my heart desires to stay
And know I may be wrong,
But I think this could be home someday.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Slipping through winter-grass
you falter, pausing
fall softly back
against summer's wall
Here
in the haze of dust and trees
are shadows playing
of antlered men and women with eagle-heads
saying
"Come by
the paths winding through bedroom walls
standing tall, overlook the
gardens that stretch through books
they smell of lemons.
Come, here you may
follow trams winding through sun-slumped cities
follow the paintings of emerald fish
swimming across marble floors
and you can tour the first world countries
and you can stare into the eyes
of passers-by on trains
watch lights like necklaces plastered against rivers
cities forsaken by gods and rains
Here dogs will sing of your virtues
And chariots their tyres will spring
here markets will sell you filigreed
silver
and *********** fit for kings
(complete with crowns and things)
You may stand aloft on slender buildings
watch traffic swirl by your feet
dip your fingers in amethyst rings
dye your hair in deepest indigo
feast on rose-coloured sweets
While
stepping
through rain-damped streets
dazed by sulky pressing aquarium
heat
(aided to press on only by
clay cups of spiced tea)
become transparent
dew-lapped
milk soft
mushroom with lacy edges
variations of delicacy
Exeunt
And
Journeying
be mulberry blooded
carnival skinned
roam through our words heeding nothing
but
dreams and the dreams of dreams."
So saying
these shadows
flick along yellow grass.
But remember kind reader, they
never sought these ways alone
They have never been to mourn
at funerals of lovers or friends
they have not heard the sound of death knells.
So listen, maybe you stay for a bit
Then leave their songs for someone else.
--- --- ---
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
The sky was filled with the echoing wheeze
Of all the protesters with everything they believe
Oh' there are the sirens and the barks of many man
What they fight for is reform for a new land
Can you hear the way the pigeons fly?
Imagine to yourself and try not to lie
There are the dancer's and the political magistrates
All wondering to themselves who the King will make
Lady imagination atop Parnassus's mountain
I see you there alone & naked in that fountain
I charge you with bringing me to this heavenly place
Making me see there is only you to believe as true
The hasty hare clicks his pocket watch as he walks
As Alice steps forward, how sad she cannot stop
And all the doomed and determined minds
Frown for they see their fear is much like mine
Here the castle stones whisper as peace spells disaster
All the trams carry the drunken lined as if in rafters
My sister swam through the Pacific without a cough
Yet these heathens praise a place they know only in song
The minstrels with their strings have many gifts to bring
And the orchestra with their penguins praise coming Spring
No, I try never to whimper or feel the weight of being alone
Those feelings are to be reserved for people without any bones
Push me this way and I'll go the other
When I was young it was me and my mother
Yet time has a way of pulling you away from who you love
Though the dove still flies as time ticks and shoves
Here in the desert the sky drifts in a different way
Not many people so only the animals here to play
The guns in the hills point toward my tiny shack
When she left she never mentioned when she'd be back
Now I started off on a road where there aren't many signs
Just the one's from above and the unemployment line
If I stick to this too long I know I'll start thinking about that
Stay off the road for there is a wickedness here that smells of a rat
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC