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some say it's a winding road
it get's a little too pumpy for me
sick of running over potholes
on flat from running over glass bottles
been in the middle of the street
every since I've tried to cross
somehwere in the middle of lost
in the great divide, in the center
of the other side, where the
road is open wide like the weaved
web covering the eyes of the lame
who cme with stick and cane
to entertain wax and wane
walking on the moon to
spite the sun into somber
the sounds of train passing
roaring the earth like thunder
born with mirrior vision
see through twisted intentions
don't plan to come in too soon
out here talking to the moon
