Letters meant to sail away into oblivion
Came souring through my windown once again
And reading them I realized you're bullshit
You've always been bullshit
I ripped your heart and soul to pieces?
Yeah right, Mr. I cheated on you 3 times
But it's for sure I'm not completley over you
Even though I've tried and tried
Because you see
First loves never die
I am sitting in a tree
I am not a little boy no more
My hair is long and gold
I talk of arrows and of bows
and my innocence is sold
They take me to the countertop
Take me to your garden
Drop a penny in my palm
I found on old ring, long ago was given to me,
By the swings, next to our old tree,
Nothing remarkable, or extraordinary.
It’s not real, in the light it does not shine.
But that doesn’t change the fact that its mine,
It didn’t cost a fortune, but its special.
My ring represents a time of carefree fun.
When our troubles hadn’t yet begun.
When we could laugh without a thought.
When clothes didn’t matter,
Or who was fatter.
When everyone was friends with everyone else.
My old ring reminds me that there was once a time
When we couldn’t read or spell and our hands were covered in grime.
Back when life meant living, and having fun.
I wish we could all go back to that place,
When our days were filled with games of chase.
When our mothers picked our clothes out for us.
We all we friends and I don’t understand why
Everyone changed. They’re all so mean they make each other cry,
No one cares anymore. They’re all deceitful. I hate them all.
I was bent at the back, to the back of the pack
lost in the riddle of solitude, distracted by Amaylia.
Emerald is better than chaos, and chaos is just
a money game; the sort you pay entry fees for.
And she may be the one who lights my way
to darker days and pity lays. I had a funny dream
and she was living in the sand, sane as the black
polkadots in windy Chicago. Blow me over man,
take everything I say to heart, because they came
from mine, and thats one thing you can hum
about Chris Martin. Don't tell me that Jesus
is in Scripture, tell me he's in Burger King and
maybe I'll give you a fiver for the crack. I'm sort
of wondering how many pennies it takes? How many
does it take, to make a rake a rake? Pennies, got
pennies, Bananas, you want bananas? I got bananas!
Limes and grapes, oranges and dates. Buy them now
because fruit goes stale, and I only got the one bunch
of Vitimin C. And haha yeah, you know you're right,
you are. It is wicked, and I still don't give a toss.
And you know I know you know that this is shit
thats why you're still reading. If you liked it
you'd have stopped by now; so lets get this
straight, you're reading this, and I'm still
writing, so who's mad? Me or my memory.
Either and or. Bananas you know I've got them
I've got enough to feed an army, but get them now
get them now, while they stay yellow, they have
a horrid hermit habit of turning black when you
turn your back. Disgrace, this is, the rambelings
of adolescence, and mad at that. Send for the doctor
Tom, fetch a cold cloth Mary, Peter and Paul go
to California and form a folk band, but stay out of
the sun, the fever will pass, it will pass. She'll make
it through, because lets face it, we never get what
we want in life. So how about hitchiking to Grenwich
Village? We could take the sleeping bags
and make a trip of it. I think I'd like that alot.
Amaylia, get your head out of my clouds, I
only got enough innovation to feed myself.
I've come to terms with living a life less ordinary than normal, I've come to terms with kicking time up the arse and asking for my coffee.
I've come to terms with sitting in a dole queue, singing about the government, asking who the hell would ask a dime of you?
So If I wrap my fingers around the handlebars
and sing the revolutionary songs he said I'd see
then time could fantacise about an airwar
and life could ask a fucking dime of me.
But America is just a legendary island
with grass and sand and bucket loads of sea
and flowers till there aint no sodding airways
but hell they'll never leave a tree a tree.
Commission my heart man, but sell it to a beggar
then perhaps I'd live a life of fucked up pain
sell my floorboards to the man who paints the ceiling
sign it off, tomorrows questioning the rain.
For you know that man is just a woman
and womans man but living in a park
of consequental monumental timewarps
where light is light and sometimes light is dark.
Allen Ginsberg, he wrote the words I want to tell you
and he wrote them long before his lungs drew air
he wrote when hitler sent an army to defeat us
and he wrote them when there weren't no Hitler there!
He wrote a song for silence and for raging voices
wrote a song, s'for all of us who can't believe
wrote a song thats 'fuck you' to the armies
and you know he says its how you will percieve.
So fucked poetic poets populate the landscape
and I guess with pens they populate the page
to tell a story that a man once told before them
about a robin snapped in half inside its cage.
Do you get the point, the point Im trying to tell you?
Do you get why man is just a whipping boy
for continental consequental clergy
and the white collar nazis they employ?