Church bells ring as a train chugs along
I can’t hear planes much
But every time I look up
I see one
And the birds stick to trees
Or a brief wispy breeze
The only ones higher are too busy
Looking down, circling
And all the clutter and clatter
Makes me want to batter some heads in
These objects look foreign, forged from a rolling pin
And they’re just pretty guts and grey matter
I don’t have the money to become an astronaut
So how can I know for sure that space exists
And if the final frontier is the mind
How far have we to go
After all I can tie my shoes with one or two bows
An every holy man seems to have
A wall street connection
And when Jesus says fuck
You know he means business
And my tax dollars just went off
And killed a little kid
If the world ended
When we all stopped dancing
That must mean we’re zombies
Especially the prom queen