PavementBlack Out

Sunday drive past your own hall of fame It's closed on week days shut for good You've got no one when you're talking Thoughts like rattlesnakes were walking No one has a clue The party's shot The thin caught fault line dancing Across the frigid air shack The spastic rats, The criminals chat Count to ten and read Until the lights begin to bleed lights Until you actually see the rays And your thoughts then start to turn and Those lessons that you're learning No one has a clue The gauzy thoughts of the sturdy Scots Wrestle with the elements Up on the trail high I need to know where does it go How do I get there and what will I find Fun for the summertime blues © 2015