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