There's a trolley in the train
that he speaks of in the morning.
Soul is found
in a shoe in the hallway.
And the last tickets low
priced. Cheap.
He holds up his hands
and forgets what he planned.
There's no story but one.
Soon we should have forgotten
our demands
and then take a chance.
And we turn and we turn.
What a way to see the world.
Can we
just let it go by?
Since last week the stormy weather
has got names that doesn't matter.
I am calling out to rescue
all the little ones grotesque.
There's a street or a lane
that he dreamt of the other day.
Some quiet day.
A possible way.
And the sour, sandy rain
from the Englander is pale.
Have felt the crown.
It was an impossible frown.
Since last week the stormy weather
has got names that doesn't matter.
I am calling out to rescue
all the little ones grotesque.