| The first man saw his scope
|
| Making lists, he asked «will it look like this tomorrow?»
|
| Excuse you, behoove you to live a spiders life and «clean up nice»
|
| Placate away, placate away and grow up tame
|
| Tonight I saw what I’ll never be,
|
| Old men walking and the reveries badgering me
|
| My longevity lays in my feet,
|
| I’m counting Fridays on calendars
|
| I’m seeing signs in my yellow teeth
|
| I do my best thinking while driving but now
|
| I have to wear glasses and they’ve been doing roadwork for years
|
| It’s funny how towns never lose their smells
|
| It’s funny how now I scythe and scowl about missing this house
|
| You can learn to live without anyone, you just can’t live with the re-runs
|
| I’m ready to let my hair down, I’m ready to move to the woods
|
| until the floor boards get raspy, I’m ready, I’m ready
|
| Sometimes I wish I could stop scratching at my wheals,
|
| Scratching at the heels of my sneaks |