You throw the dice, but the table sets the point,
And the day will choose how it turns out,
And death is waiting,
Patiently,
Or checking his watch.
And all will mourn,
And none will notice your absence,
And God is not mocked.
And God is not mocked.
And the stage comes and goes,
And the sun tells us when to work,
And the bottle tells us the rest,
And everyone knows Colorado seeds won’t flower
So far from home.
How did you get so far from home?
And your kindness will be
Recompensed by
Wild-eyed horses, and
Child-sized corpses, and
A sudden need for a Preacher.
Do you need the Preacher?
Should I run for the Preacher?
I’ll go fetch up the Preacher.
And get word to the Doc.
And the winter will be here
Soon, and the future will not be
Negotiated, and the dice are in the
Hand of the shooter, and the point is the
Table’s responsibility.
There is music tonight
On the thoroughfare
Which is an avenue of shit
And God will not be mocked.
But there is music tonight,
On the thoroughfare,
Which is not far from home.
Well put, brother.
I have thoughts on Molly Parker, she is a Canadian treasure.
Also, it’s about 110 degrees her in Ontario today, Fela seems in order…
Or zombie Fela…
head uptown to The Becker’s, get you a Lola……maybe talk to Flipper (lives in a packing crate behind the Yummy Donuts) about Kiss Army
Where is the damn Dickie Dee kid when you need him?
probably smoking reefer down at the School, jumping the stairs with his bike, like Evel Knievel. that kind of heat…….we’d be running through sprinkler in our Speedos eating corn on the cob.