saturday morning lifts me up
empties my head and fills my cup
saw myself a sudden sight
a dream appeared before my eyes

in shallow streets
the poets cry
the gig is up-
our prophets died
the moon bleeds pus
my head is fried
there's a burning blimp
up there with my name on it

the ashes of the blimp they fly
up like leaves and stain the sky
the sight is seen for many miles
the poet then, begins to smile

picks up his pen
scratches page
with every word
he wilts with age
his fingers shake
his pen runs dry
before he falls
he scatters the pages

so, i set out in that morn
with bob's words to get born
they warm my heart and clear my eyes
yeah, they dance away and tease my mind

'cuz getting born
is silly stuff
apriest told me
i'm not old enough
i've been waiting
all my life
you born me
once now born me
twice man!

folks today don't have time
to look a friend in the eye
to grow a garden or feel a tide
they shrivel in their shells and die

they tap away
about their days
there's a million others
with more to say
they don't shut up
so they shut em out
while it rains oil and hell
from a black cloud

father took all that we got
left us here to stink and rot
philosophizing 'bout why and when
till the cock crows 'n we forget again

jesus died on a cross
today he dies as
they burn mosques
the smoke filled sky
won't cloud their hate
they'd eat him alive
just for a small taste

sunday morning drags on by
imaginary clouds haunt the sky
harder days seem like they'll stay
'till we scratch our heads and choose another way