The older the city, at sunrise -
original creeps been walking the streets
after crawling the ceilings
Still looking for love
like a winning lotto;
like feet on hot asphalt
strings of rubber and sunburn
You're baby's that weak knee'd knockout-
twenty-four hours of return
The sadder the story, sometimes
Orwellian kid, when it hit the skids,
did you get here on Greyhound?
Is it coming and going at will,
like the squirrels in the walls?
Or is it disappearing like telephone booths?
Long distance collect, pay-phone calls
Kid strange and clever, dark and deranged
Never, no never ever change
Now, the night lasts longer on your feet
but time is too sure for sit-down,
too curt for discourse
It's too cruel to rewind or repeat
Singing to yourself: There's grass somewhere
and it's green
I won't have to walk too far, I think
There's grass somewhere and it's green.