Divers and Werewolves
Divers are lining up to go a jumping off the shipyard clock.
Men bow and wince and shuffle dance to every concrete splash.
They shush me when I say you know its tough to swim in rock.
I walk away when the women say for the diving you need cash.
You can have my place in line boys and jump like you say I should,
because it looks like to me this clock is working good.
Now the artist wears her breton shirt as she shoos me all away
She's just more amused with her british fishing gang of black
that screams its selfish politics that my wallet ought to stay.
I burn down all these bridges so I won't fail by turning back.
Sayin bitch' I won't pitch in for your shanty town when I get paid,
I've got no use for civilization when you know I still get laid.
Werewolves nip me in my sleep and ghosts in my kitchen knock.
That's just my friends of old lives Jacob Marley's wrapped in chain
saying we have a better place in artists lines at that old shipyard clock
So every night's a link of sleeping that washes my mind in dream rain
of every woman life and each are doors to just my future I'm steaming toward,
racing echos of each closing so they won't catch me when I'm bored.