Back then I had a Buckingha rabbit.
I'd been lonely since she found Christ.
Now is the time to depend on the law:
the nights of my professional life.
I was living in a very young city.
Grand piano, great lakes, good-bye.
If you ask me my name, it's high-low-jack in the game.
I can track a single bee to the hive.
Every single game was a blowout.
And the Nascar blurred into porn.
Scenic this, scenic that,
don't fall for the traps of the man who was never born.
And so the rent became whiskey,
and then my life became risky:
shattered dogs on the rocks.
At the back of the bar there's a couch
where the lonely people go and lie.
They talk to the honky tonk psychiatrist
into the wee hours of the night.
The factories on muscle relaxers.
The pine perfume of hilltown floors.
The lover, the thinker, the talker, the singer
won't be lucid for her anymore.
When you know how I feel I feel better
When you're 15 you want to look poor.
Do unto others, and run like a mother
I don't want to look poor anymore
Jesus in a runaway shelter,
said "The deaf have pictures of you."
From the digital fountains to the analog mountains,
let the mirrow express the room.