My grand
ma used to say regularly,
Regarding me,
Give that boy a tennis ball
And you won't see him for weeks
I just, you see,
A concentration of a sheep
At least he's out beneath our feet
But there's a twitch behind his eye,
there's nothing settled in that mind
And now you bang up with the scowl,
the seagull's resting on your brow
Your buoyancy's your cur rency,
but you can't melt how
My voice's like breaking glass
in your auditory canal
And if you don't remind me,
there's no way I'm gonna run it back now
Like a moth to a flame,
like a kid after a train
Trouble is the flutter on
the edge of the frame
Like the slam of the door,
like the depth of the applause
Trouble is when the eggs don't stay
Oh, and won't move
You pack those things in boxes
and organize by alphabet
You ride your trike for miles
and miles just trying not to forget
I stretch each wound up muscle,
punch the crap out of the bag
I go searching on your scalp for a number,
for the tag
Like a moth to a flame,
like a kid after a train
Trouble is the flutter on
the edge of the frame
Like the slam of the door,
like the death of the applause
Trouble leaves me ex hausted
And one more
Oh, and more
Horseman, mainsail and
raise those eyelids
Past the headland to the big ink
We ain't coming back home
We're
who's a little past are drowned
and into the big drink
We ain't comin' back
home
We're home, we're home
We're here, we're here,
we're here