Lyrics:

The lids on Streetlights peel back to reveal row upon row of bulging black bird eye
All gorged out toward you like exotic zoo snakes heaped up
on fiberglass rocks, fat with farmed rats coaxed down their throat
below them in their brights,
tilt finished arrows beached up on thin tin signs.
and where its corrugated stem injects into cement

there is a deep fried breastbone,
popping hard half ate on a rich red curb
(x4)

All at once

The next morning everything begins again
Over a walk past a few balloons tied to a lovesick car-salesman's wrist.
You press on
A soft bicycle wheel chained up
behind a savage looking pair of women's dress shoes,
abandoned to the left of a tire tread pressed dead pigeon
lain askew in more rich rose colored gutter
There there
Temperature taking your skin
Tinged city wind catching air on your pleasantly imperfect and c-section shaped skull

For once forget your headed to the mailbox
to drop more finished bills down to its gut
Even though for all you know that's about as far as those things ever go
(x2)

As sad as it is so, (x2)
Kids today will never wear the perfect cape of clean air
Nor one true brand new brazier of sheer luck

or does someone out there, does someone out there still expect that
the way a moth gives freely of itself unto the bulb

they will not learn their lesson from a teachers copy
of a blackened lung, hung in the classroom, on the coat rack
Or left dripping in the closet during math minutes passing
nor from a nice new globe made of gold, cast in the shape of a half eaten apple

Not until

The sun is on a stick
The moon hung on a hook
(x2)

Desperate times call for step by step schematics of the human dive (x6)

Fool. Not
Gum up bubble flavored up sitting on a more popular mechanics of a fifty foot flesh. Not
Watch a thieving wallet going over the counter of botox. With your arms a great cops. Not
Not god. Not done. So booking the atomic clock. Not sea loud to clear. Over a dozen boxed cars. Keys to the city
You're rap rock. Not blood. Not gold bonded. Not
You serious precarious, but with no snots

And a sunset interjects
Donating the kind of red you'd only see in stores
Affording yourself a bit more clarity, some singular mood polarity

And if you could, you'd have a close friend
drive you off into the sinking pinks