We bottle up our passion.
And drink it on weekends.
And the moon always shines on our back.
We have cuts in our feet
From the glass in our street
And the world always wants to attack,
Going back
Where we started, to start it again,
And again
We go right through the pain and the heat.
Getting dust in the cuts in our feet,
From the street,
In the lazy Autumn
And they're
"Now we caught 'em smokin'!"
Well thank you for your kindness.
You're probably gonna find us
In the bottom
Of a broken

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed