Just for tonight, listen as I write.
And know wet words on screens cause fires.
Typed by bony hands that beg to understand
how someone so low can dream of somewhere higher.
Think of a wish, be it flying with the fish,
or finally making a speech in a public setting.
It won't come true. At least not for you.
So, son, pack your things and start regretting.
Write a last good-bye, wet a couple eyes,
we say, "be safe" but really mean, "stay away"
Catch the next car, near by ain't far,
at least, not enough for the likes of you.
Polka-dotted handkerchiefs and baked beans on chapped lips
are in fictitious bits for children's books and cartoons.
While life on the tracks, halos are black
clouds that rain on a sunny day in the afternoon.
But every mile is worth it. Every other stop, a sure fit
like the sleeve of a man trying on a new town.
With newer shoes, and older news,
you could fit in with those highs now, not the downs.
And there's the dream and goal for the youth getting old.
Convinced a new home can drown out the old cracked wood
of your childhood tree-house or father with a new spouse.
Anywhere you go, ain't going to be no good.
But every mile is worth it. Every other stop, a sure fit
like the sleeve of a man trying on a new life.
But each suit that suits the likes of you
won't have big enough pockets for your switchblade knife.
So put it down.
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