| I open my eyes and it’s November
|
| And I am in a freight elevator
|
| And I’m in Las Vegas, but I haven’t won any money
|
| And everyone here is wearing clothing that I find confusing
|
| And I wonder if they’ve won any money
|
| Jeff tells me it’s not the drugs
|
| It’s Monday morning and you can’t get up
|
| When your degree is staring daggers from the wall
|
| Somewhere sunk inside your heart
|
| There is a teensy tiny part of you that sure could use some coffee
|
| I open my eyes, and I am sweating
|
| I must have been dreaming
|
| That punch I threw was just embarrassing
|
| And all my dreams are always violent, but I’m not violent
|
| So in my dreams I’m not so good at fighting
|
| There’s this one where you and I
|
| Are making brilliant love inside a 7−11 just past the city
|
| And I can’t save us when that guy
|
| Gets up and jumps out from behind the counter
|
| Gun in hand and grinning
|
| Tell my sister I am with her wherever she may go
|
| If not pulpit then sure as shit, where she leads I’ll follow
|
| Watch the corn grow in Ohio
|
| Let our kids grow strong and smart
|
| Playing intramural sports while we build the ark |