the needle rides the groove
the ox takes the yoke
a truck passes your window
billowing thick black smoke
picking up your trash
the things you have disposed
outbox goes out
and inbox is enclosed
the needle takes another lap
skipping along a warped plate
but knowledge of the clock's a trap
gripped tight on bloody legs
can we really ever get away
from the things that make us run?
is the game really all that fixed?
any of you having fun?
a tale about a baseball game
a story about a boat
a description of a cousin's wake
empty platitudes of hope
blind faith in something true and real
now shaken to the core
fold your hands and praise the son
and not your high school whore
I just can't tell what's me these days
what else has taken hold?
shadows stain my sorry skin
growing numb, going cold
"Well, he tried"
the headstone says
tilted to one side
pity he never worked it out
before his passion died.
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