Hudson River
Under the sun.
Out of the blue,
on Amsterdam Avenue,
a baker's dozen red birds flew by you,
screaming into your ears.
Screaming "I know what's goin' on with you;
it's nothing new!
It's just that same old fractal
repeating over your eyes,
into your ears,
on your hands."
A baker's dozen red birds
flew westward
into the Hudson River that day.
It's a strange thought, but what do you do
when you've gotta run?
We're getting to the point where we can finally steal
our hands back from the box of miscellaneous garbage stolen
confiscatingly by the police;
but it's not gonna be hard for the police,
even though it's hard
for everyone.
This machine is breaking down;
it's time to pull the plug on the neon clown.
We're getting to the point where we can finally steal
our lives back from the sky, where they've been held eternally,
under lock and key (solitarily) by the police;
but it's not gonna be hard for the police
to break into our homes.