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Spring starts when a heartbeat's pounding |
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When the birds can be heard above the reckoning carts doing some final accounting |
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Lava flowing in Superfarmer's direction |
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He's been getting reprieve from the heat in the frozen food section |
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Don't tell me what the poets are doing |
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Don't tell me that they're talking tough |
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Don't tell me that they're anti-social |
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Somehow not anti-social enough, all right |
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And porn speaks to it's splintered legions |
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To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions |
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While aiming at the archetypal father |
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He said with such broad and tentative swipes why do you even bother? |
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Don't tell me what the poets are doing |
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Those Himalayas of the mind |
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Don't tell me what the poet's been doing |
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In the long grasses over time |
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Don't tell me what the poets are doing |
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On the street and the epitome of vague |
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Don't tell me how the universe is altered |
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When you find out how he gets paid, all right |
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If there's nothing more that you need now |
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The lawn cut by bare breasted women |
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Beach bleached towels within reach for the women |
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Got to make it, that'll make it by swimming |
