Frankly, Mr. Shankly, Everyday is like Sunday. Certain people I know Sing your life. Alma matters Lost. I know it’s going to happen someday— Hairdresser on fire,
This one is for summer. Of a time when the Sun Drives out the sky and only blue prevails. Don’t you fret though, They manage still to stick themselves back. Crossed and checkered,
There’s a thing in the sky It’s called the moon. Out of reach (even by my hand’s reach) But yet, I can reach you from it No matter how far we’re apart.
All that feds, Festering inside Becoming your weakness. Carving its own way into the soul, Rotting the wood That makes your house. Creations of the mind.