longing for the schoolyard
reaching for the scenes
reminded by the songs that will never disappear
random like
the infants
outdated like the old
lying there in aimlessness listening to the cure
doing some rehearsal
exercising in the cold
lowering the standarts
for the six-string never rolled
whistling at the girls
and saving for the fuel
making plans and knock knock knock on wood
play some rock
play some rock
please don’t stop
coming home coming home
sentenced by our faults
we were to make in time
pleasently aware of our solitude in mind
saved me from the boredom
of what we disavowed
encouraged by the sound
that was the sweetest one of all