Rounding the dark street corner once again, my backpack held together with safety pins. Much like my brain, never connecting the signals together. Wondering if the seasons will be back next year.
Look to the water for inspiration, only to find McDonald's wrappers and someone's bad memories. Take to the streets, and bring your grandmother's apple pies. Photographs hidden from under the kitchen sink.
Being a fascist won't get you anywhere. If purity is what you want, you aren't running the right race. All this talk of foreign policy, lacking sense in economies, will I always feel foreign in my birth country. For every middle finger, there's a star in the sky. For every bomb dropped another song is written, and they can't take it back.
And I called to say hello but you could hear that wire tapping it's toes. To the same old, to that same old fucking song.