home town
My thoughts tell me that I’m miles from home.
My thoughts seem to have a mind of their own.
Come to me softly as if in a dream.
Words are never what they seem.
Over the town high up on a hill,
I can still see it sitting there still.
A building of forgiveness silent as a church
Saying the answers for which I search.
There are no answers unless I’m at home.
Not all my thoughts feel like they’re home grown.
The well’s gone dry but I still can drink.
How far do you turn the handle of the one called think?
I ask Dr. Frankenstein, “Do you want to make a baby?”
He scratches his chin, thinks and says, “Yeh, well, maybe”.
I say, “That’s a big baby, how old might it be?”
Doc says, “Don’t know but he's been in the penitentiary”.
I say, “Has he got good body parts?”
Doc says, “Yeah, I gave him a heart”.
I say, “And his thoughts, do they know his name”.
He says, “They’ve forgotten but it’s not them you can blame”.
The town’s people hold sticks that are on fire.
Baby’s thoughts start having their own mind called desire.
It takes longer to get there than the return trip home.
That is the pity of anything that is known.
So keep changing your name with every sunrise
And you’ll never ever have to shade your eyes.
Cows get big muscles just from standing.
They carry their own weight with every four point landing.
All good things come to those who wait.
Who is minding the store at heaven’s gate?
The biggest number is the number one.
Leastwise it feels that way when it all comes undone.