So, what about that big blue sky and those withering palms
and how about those wet days and sultry nights aloft

What gives with the shuffling crowds at the Sunday market
and all those guys in shorts on such a cold day in December.

Have you seen the long noses on those fake-oldde street lights
and all those signs on peoples’ lawns selling their bank’s assets

And all those items that have reached their pull dates intact
with the samples and bargain prices when you do the checking yourself?

Its a cold day in the desert and all those crazy ideas are floating around
catching in the skimmer and rolling off the roof into the yard-waste can

While everyone else is shivering and huddling or fighting and killing
and gathering for the armageddon or the put-off elections or some party

To which no one is invited but all must attend in their finest raiments
of blood and fiber, swelling the ranks of the downtrodden and faint

While the rest of us sing on in solitary bliss with the dishwasher growling
as we pass on the rest of yesterday’s lunch to some who really needs it.

So, what about that blue sky — is it lifting you up and filling your sails
or taking you down to the depths of entropy without any help?

This discordant nonsense is all we’ve got — more mundane anarchy:
Its up to us to make it into a song and dance to it lightly, right or wrong.

You may not see this a verse but, who really gives a damn so let it be -
anything and nothing but a scrambled bunch of words to feel and see.

Yeah, what about that big blue sky and those withering palms
can you make it a party — or only something else to make it through.