On The Road

 "Overload," says the motorcycle;
"I can't blow," cries the trumpet player;
5x4, plus a television;
Ask for more, make a million wishes. 

He was living like a popcorn star;
With cloudy vision and a broccoli guitar;
Nothing made him, nothing made him cry;
Flies and pride gone away in the wind.

I gotta stop them on their way down;
But in the morning when the light came down, I came to meet them;
They were gone, gone, now go on, now go on like the cars on the road. 

"Good to go," says the toaster oven;
Nat King Cole, variety baritone;
On the road looking for a future;
On the floor, found a father missing.

He was living in a chicken shack;
Slowly waiting for the eggs to hatch;
Nothing made him, nothing made him cry;
Flies and pride gone away in the wind.

 

If it don't go my way, I got to try another day.

 

 

 

The Ground 

  The clock is calling, the leaves are falling down around me;
And since last autumn I have forgotten melody;
Well it keeps on singing; 
Sing out, so loud, to the ground. 

One by one till the bullet comes and nails my heels to the ground. 

My brain has lost it, turned into frosting long ago; 
And since last August, I must've tossed it far below;
Well it keeps on drifting,
Drift out, so loud, to the ground.

Somebody help me, I'm not ready to fall. Somebody help me, I'm not ready at all. 

Cold Eskimo

Drop is the sound not heard;
Top from the tree outside in the cold;
Blankets to satisfy your needs and your desires.  

With nothing far from each leaf, yet content underneath;
Feet from the top of that tree;
Blankets of snow silently go.

Something is happening in the cold, in the snow, you should know.

Cold eskimo in the sea;
Caught by the waves underneath;
Time touched his hand, changed his plan;
They let him survive, fate was so kind.

By the time our eyes were tired; the seasons gone our dreams transpired.