Torch the moon, burn the schools. She wrote in red on her bedroom wall, "Nothing's pure". The paint runs to the floor. . She laughs too easily and cries too hard.
Can you divide the meaning. By the number of your words?. The money in your pocket. By the masters that you serve?. . It's not the destination. It's what's around the curve.
She came from the Cocos Islands. With a limp and a snow-shaker, huh. Hocked by a fine Arabian ginger Monsignor. . He said, "You ain't get's nothing. 'Cause nothing gets made by Koreans".
He'll need some time to get over this. But a moment is all he can spare. His buddies out there in the city lights. And he is trying to care. . See him offering himself to the world.
We've seen her type before. Sandals and the hair. They fall in love with big dumb boys. And we sit and stare. . So, we walk the long way home. Glasses in our hands.