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he wrote it with a crabbed hand |
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an ageless plastic poem |
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but no one needs to read it |
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it's nothing we don't already know |
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cause we're out dragging the river |
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trying to find something missing |
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but everyone we know is here |
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and nothing that we have is gone |
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i think i'm through with the fighting |
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chopped off my heavy, heavy hands |
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i see the blue spot fading |
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keep it down, keep it down, |
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i'm caught in my own net. |
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i think i'm through with the fighting |
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two turns away from turning blue |
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you can watch if you want to. |
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they said he's just a crusty addict |
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lurking in dusty attics |
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and tapping on your pipes at night. |
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the sounds are pretty though |
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a pickled caterpillar |
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sleeping salty in his pocket |
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not everything he has is here |
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but no one he wants is gone |
