Where he destroys the village in order to save it only to find there’s nowhere left to eat.
When I was young boy no older than Tuesday
I believed in pure joy I believed in fair play.
Everything has changed now. Everything is different.
What used to pass for change then lays scattered on the pavement.
It wasn’t me paved paradise but I have bought and sold it twice.
I never took no ones advice that I couldn’t steal.
The music never really died but many a dark night it tried
its hand at committing suicide but now it longs to heal.
I remember orchards. I remember green fields.
Thinking about that’s torture the memory of dark deals.
Everything’s gone condo. Everything’s gone Wal-Mart.
A gremlin tagged with bondo is what passes now for high art.
There’s key chains for sobriety but nothing for society
when it decides to cop a plea for its modern crimes.
It’s the money it’s the shame. It’s the players it’s the game.
Me I tend to lay the blame on gravity and time.
I’ll get back to you by sunrise no later than Thursday.
When I don’t believe my own lies I wonder what my kids say.
Would they send a shiver to a man who can’t be sutured
who sold them down the river to buy them a better future.
I’ve never been to paradise that couldn’t live on beans and rice
peppered with a little spice and a glass of wine.
The music never really died but many a dumb day it lied
about its attempt to slow the tide of gravity and time.