Tumbling through the days and weeks,
A snakethought strikes, we strive to speak
In analog and digital,
We send out our weak siginal.
A call, a summons, incantation
Let it be an inspiration
Left in restrooms, under stones
From keys and buttons quickly thrown
From three beers deep, who gives a shit?
With so few orbits, this is it.
So hit me up, the whale and beet,
I'll put my stuff out on the street.
It's hard but so are the dark hallways
Where I wander sometimes, always.
But this, perhaps, is the hot fire.
And now, my friends, I shall retire.
To the bar.