Time moves like a freight train
passing up my town.
But off in the distance-
smoke can be seen, engines can be heard.
The calenders will lie to you,
but the past will come back.
Krishna helped me load my boxcar
but when it came down to it-
I couldn't do it.
The trouble with him is the flute he plays,
puts you in that mood.
I refused it like one refuses chocolate,
or a door-to-door salesman, "no thanks"
then I smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment