He laid to waste his making haste
And baking pastries on the long ride to the end of days
His way used to be any way.
Anyways…
These guys used sign up and erect themselves to set a precedence, but he wasn’t foolish enough to elect himself
So he checked himself
Before he wrecked himself
He rented out a housing cell…
I guess he broke down the carousel to make his ride a little more parallel to the skies…
After all, his two cents are closer to the clouds then the years in his eyes
Is his common sense worth more than his pride?
You decide.
The crew called it quits and so he treated them to a lasting banana split but instead of sharing, he took the lick, tried on the boot and it fit.
Provided protection for his soul to keep his feet moving on cruise control and with the light from his fire, can you blame him if he never saw the hole?
If there’s a similarity between an opening and the end, you can’t really tell either from which when looking up from within.
He’s a real kidder.
The man and the myth just waded in.
He grew tired of walking miles and spaces, taking shoes with graces until his wishing well tied up his laces where he’d been taking paces.
To fall over where all around are familiar faces
Around are also the flies for the fruitful grapes we’re raising out in the sun…
The ones fighting, solving all of the world’s problems with none of the fun.
Where their work isn’t over until the crowd allows them to be done.
Cuz where someone created a lump sum minus one, to the witness, it might as well have been for nothing from no one.
Ain’t that something?
Bad news sticks to a good spirit like hot cheese to a bun and plays in his head over and over again like a good song or a bad rerun.
Even in his cool headspace, his mind can leave it overdone.
After all, it still weighs a ton.
Is he the only one?
Yet only when he rests will they ask where he lied.
And if they pray tell, the truth’ll be hanging by the devil’s bedside.
Lightly hugging the countryside where the heat is being amplified.
Where they claimed he couldn’t go with clipped wings and exactly where they left him on his side.
Sundried.
The road to hell is taking good people by a landslide.
Maybe it’s worth the ride without a guide.
That aside,
To this day, that’s where he resides.
Hoping to fill his chalice with hopes that can’t hit the ground before they die.
In the River Styx, where dreams subside and spirits glide.
Where he went to get himself purified and they had the man disqualified
Where they caught his goose and had his keister chicken-fried.
Exactly how His son died.
They left him sundried.
