Catatonics all lined up in the cardboard skid row overflow,
minds drip off to the needle and the spoon,
maybe like they say, they'll fly off to the moon.
but time just ticks to the needle and the spoon.
the paranoids and the uppers are all joining the army,
sweating out the poisons,
sweating about invasions
bombs somewhere else, but the night keeps grasp, lingers on again, again
solemn nights still hang,
history is one long mistake
killing brothers and maim,
forgetting the way, digging a cave back inside your brain
where all things are the same.
Groans from the Schizoids, all up in their shacks,
paints and plaster, reds and yellows,
searching paintings for a better mellow.
Their mind plays tricks, and the talk, talk, talk
could make anybody sick.
Ravenous suits drip off skeletons that can still walk among the daylight.
Still thinking things are all alright.
When we're all either locked up, asylums or prison,
or hopped up on pills.
Buddhas keep climbings mountains, against the rains.
Drink from streams where the waters still clean.
They let the turbine roar on through the passive, lively dark.
It waits for us to remember,
so little time to make a mark,
so little time to walk among the flowers,
before the solemn destined hours.
Fields of a thousand yellow flowers,
Sit in your meditation
and let the mind open like folds in the skin.