I wont cut my beard and I wont change my hair.
It grows like fancy flowers but it grows nowhere.
If I could build my house just like the Trojan horse,
I’d put a statue of myself upon the shelf of course.
She’s the smoke, she’s dancing fancy pirouettes.
Swan diving off of the deep end of my tragic cigarette.
She’s steam, laughing on the windowpanes.
The never-ending swaying haze,
oh that ever smiling maze ballet.
Everything’s gone missing. I’ve lost more songs to floods.
I can’t prove this makes any sense but I sure hope that it does.
Perhaps, I was born with the curiosity of old crows.
The piano knows something I don’t know.