November 3, 2010
I take the city bus. Keep the tour bus. I put my feet on the seat. In the break room. And on the train. I pay the fare. And my dues. To clubs I refuse. To belong to. Cut the rungs to watch the scramblers fall. Don't want to hear about. How I'm up for sale. Your handshakes leave me cold. Your pitches are stale. If I could wear the desire to be alone, then anyone approaching would know. And just go. It's a suicide mission to go after my soul. And a santa claus fantasy dreaming of anything old.