The women here are just like in magazines

Stern

Too precious

Pissy

Ferocious

Blank

Just so

Bodies like twelve year old boys

Faces like casino poker dealers

Plastic and distant

They look right through you

And are only interested in your money

And they all smoke

Gorgeous and boring

Who are they talking to on their tiny phones?

Psychics

Drug dealers

Crisis line operators or maybe the ghost of Serge Geinsburg

What music do they listen to?

Or do they listen to music at all?

Whole world blown apart

I hate to think we've grown apart

Kicking a tin can

Along Rue Bonepart

Wind in my ears

My hands are getting soft

Shoes on

Trying to chew what I've bitten off

Atrophy setting in

Now I'm feeling lonely

Mostly

Bells on Sunday

Got me feeling holy ghostly

Who's drinking the booze

Who's singing the blues

Hangman's messenger is bringing the news

I've got 2 weeks left and then it's back to the mill

Strength in my legs is practically nill

I'm swinging an imaginary bat at some imaginary pitches

And bitching like a typical sagittarius

I'm out of my element and up to my neck

I'm psychic

Extra sensitive and I don't like it

Not one bit

I'm feeling rather low on charm

Feeling in my chest

And tingle in my throwing arm

Let's play too

There may not be a tomorrow

Magpies

Wiener dogs

Let's at least shag flies

No run limit

No in-field fly rule

I haven't felt this alone since high school

I write it in graffiti

With a wonderful bubble letter

Two most glorious words

Double header

Amusements and curiosities

The greatest nostalgia is that for what has never truly been

No more Ted Williams

No more Jimmy Rogers

No more Hemingway

No more Henry Miller

No more amusements and curiosities

No one seems to know the date

It rains here everyday

Boredom is beginning to creep in

In a heavy way

I'm restless and withered

Faces all turned to stone

Dishwater grey

Smells like a nursing home

I dig in my pockets

And find that the love's gone

Out in the street

With my uniform and gloves on

Hands tied behind my back

Still can't get my kicks

Maybe I'll fix up

When the weather picks up

I wander the field

And listen for the curtain call

I'm certain to always be the last to know first of all

And secondly

I'm technically all out of commission

I gather my things but I'd rather be fishing

I'm landlocked and worn out

Working with the new machine

Diamonds in the dirt are too far away and few between

So dress me up and take me out

Still can't make me drink

I'm at my limit

Cold and getting older by the minute