With a picnicking army of ants
Fighting off the birds
Who are waiting on a train
The red light's stuck on yield
While the coffee clan sips
Fish never tasted this fresh
Said the dolphin!
The wooden table dreams
Of when she had roots
And the chairs at her side
Wisper, "masseuse, I'm coming home."
The clouds are still low enough that I shouldn't be talking about them
And as I hear a motorcycle speed by
I can't help but think, "it was the sun's fault all along."
Some holidays are country songs
And most flooring is fake
But it's hard to pray when your kneeling knee is ripped out of your favorite jeans.
E-
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