Day Glo,
Chrome window,
Shapes in the clouds,
the hungry shoosh for miles around,
upstream, jumpin' out of the water,
gills in the air,
I got many people to thank,
but I can't write letters,
I can't write letters.
My friends on the edge of the old graveyard,
they sit on an old grey porch,
and watch foxes play,
and juggle wine,
the kind of wine that you don't mind spillin',
that you don't mind spillin'.
Well I fill out the forms and I make my death come slowly.
One at a time some kind of record unrollin'.
"You best begin sometime", she said, "but you can't start until you're ready".
Yet it seemed to be controlled,
somehow bowed her fingernails, eyelashes and all the essential parts.
We talk about dreams a lot.
She reads our fortunes out loud,
I think it's funny and I go stay with her,
and I go stay with her,
and I don't mind dyin',
when I make love to her,
to her, to her.
Day Glo.
Under a wall of sound,
a riverbed of clay,
the distance between us stays,
close, but not close,
far, but not too far,
away.
Close, but not close,
far, but not too far,
away.
Day Glo.