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Here's |
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To inhaling crushed bones |
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through a dried up |
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white out pen |
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and riding the backwards racer |
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in hot June rain |
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in a matching blue and gold |
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plastic bag / poncho / raincoat. |
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It's a wooden coaster |
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with a medium hill height mean, |
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high hill to flat ground ratio |
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you know I'd sell my shingles |
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for a thimble dip of snow. |
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Back then I'd've sold my single |
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for a fingertip of glow. |
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And us in navy blue hoodies |
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and khakis, as was the style that year. |
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In London, |
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where the sirens yelp |
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like a helpless dog |
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with its paw stepped on, |
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and the rain comes down in late July |
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and the record labels call you Why? |
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and your eyes are slits in bags of fat |
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and your eyes are piss holes in the snow |
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I swear, |
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The riders on the tube |
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tie razors to their elbows, |
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The riders on the tube |
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keep cold coal in their billfolds, |
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The riders on the tube |
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will hide cocaine in their shell toes, |
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and yes yes yes man |
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they'll novocaine their hello's |
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Till the constables got pit bulls |
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with their paw bones all stepped on |
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Till the constables got pit bulls |
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With crushed bones up their nose holes |
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And us in fish net hat |
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and canvas shoes, as was the style that year |
