Tuesday

They said they'd be nice
If I gave them my twinkie
I guess this is nice.

Thirsty

There has been no rain
For three whole weeks together
All living things thirst

The Part That's Torn

The flag on flagpole hill
Is in three pieces now
The man that pulled it up and down
Is underneath the ground
The wind caught tiny tears
And pulled them to the core
But no one's there to care anymore

The explanation letter
That just did not explain
The reason for the falling out of
Love and in again
With another woman who
Just happened to be near
Is in sixteen pieces floating in the air

Mind and body ready
To take the burden on
He traveled to the battlefield
Became a loaded gun
Three brutal tours complete
His body battered, worn
His dreams like waking nightmares, endless war

Sweet Irony

Mr. Evans

Mr. Evans favorite fantasy was the one where there's a knock at his door. Young, prim men in suits and ascots inform him that he is the last heir of a Welsh line of royalty and he must return to Wales to claim his inheritance and the family castle. He boards an ocean liner. His is a first class cabin. They disembark in Cardiff, spending the night in a plush, expensive hotel. The next day they travel by coach through wide, green countryside to an enormous white stone castle.

He is escorted inside to be greeted by his household staff who call him Sir, and sometimes Milord. They bring his coffee in bed at 8:00, lemonade on the terrace at 11:00, tea at 3:00 in the study, French wine in the formal dining room at 6:00, brandy in the men's lounge at 7:00 and a nightcap at 10:00 just before bed. A vivid fantasy life is the only way to survive the factory.

Clank-clank-whine - "Your coffee, Sir. Would you like your daily newspaper?"
Press-pop-push - "Your lemonade, Milord. Will you be taking your midday turn in the garden?"
Clack-lackity-clack - "Your tea, Sir. Would you prefer roast or lamb for supper today?"

Clank-clank-whine - "Your wine, Milord. The roast is prepared with potatoes au gratin. May I serve you?"
Press-pop-push - "Your brandy, Sir. May I light the candles in the chandelier for you?"
Clack-lackity-clack - "Your nightcap, Sir. May I help you on with your nightclothes?"

Clank-clank-whine - "Your coffee, Sir. Are you feeling well?"
Press-pop-push - "Your lemonade, Milord. Would you like to read you mail?"
Clack-lackity-clack - "Your tea, Sir. Would you prefer spotted dick or cod for supper today?"

Clank-clank-whine - "Your wine, Milord. The cod fried just as you like it. May I serve you?"
Press-pop-push - "Your brandy, Sir. Would you like to put your feet up on the devan?"
Clack-lackity-clack - "Your nightcap, Sir. May I bring you anything else?"

Only Singed

I would have done it
I could have done it
I would have taken your hand
And led you right out of hell
But you turned your back on me
You made me walk out of hell without you
Fire licking at my heels
And now you dance amid the flames
Laughing, ignoring the burn
Certain you're only singed.

I don't know why...

Sometimes you just need a little pig in galoshes.
Doncha just wanna jump in a puddle with him?