for 22 hours a day i keep my teeth in and
for 22 hours a day i stay in my quaint little town
four walls around a caved in nest
patterned bees swarming around the outside
a water tower climbed by hands, graffitied by teen meaning.
at night the barn raising commences and we laugh at the drive-in
the mayor falls asleep and finds you
sitting atop the bridge that comes down every morning
making the sunset blush.
if you're quick you might catch a glimpse of the
what-ifs and the
colored mutants that cage themselves in the drawer.
everything seems old and withered when the
government officials just
taint the potholes with blacker paint
instead of filling them in but
the gems still sparkle in the twilight
when visiting hours come to a close.
crawling outside the city limits
come again soon, friend
but don't expect it to be perfect.