hush yr hands from yr brow
safely you wipe yr smirk
down yr sleeve and up the street
you'll have the time to plagerize
cast the canvas with bright colours
on the works of false appointments
the days of mile markers and ticket stubs,
will find you shamed
like a ghost that has no one to haunt
like a theif that never gets caught
you'll play that sad violin this early dawn
and crush the tiny spiders on the front lawn
this is all so much care it has a brightness
like a lamp with no shade or a sheath
and you i know that truth:
i am sure of somethings, and you may be one thing
but you i am sure are the utmost nothing.
