Monday, September 15, 2014

His year...

He's got his hair long and stuffed in hats,
Not brushed and his hands crushed,
Eyes as little as the stars,
Not shining yet for the morning is no time,
He sleeps by day and lives by night,
Has only gotten drunkin' pride,
I wish I could just call him up,
But he won't answer till the morning coffee cup,
So I'll just wait,
Watch him go down, down, down,
Down, down, down he's falling...
Now I can't see what he is trying to find,
As long as it will be getting behind,
I can find myself in finding him,
No more worry's in the I am sorry's,
He never calls and he never stands up,
Cause down, down, down, down,
He's falling down...
Maybe it's just that it not his time,
Not his summer,
Not his weekend,
Yet when he's playing his songs,
Dances al night long,
It could really all turn out fine,
It could be his year... Maybe?
This will be his year...

maybe it's not my weekeind but it's gonna be my year.




















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