are you wearing argyle?
Are you wearing argyle?
Are you singing songs of brain and brawn?
Are you driving through the daylit world
With your headlights on?
Are you humming sweetly?
Are you smart or too Republican?
Do you pull your weight or someone else
Through the shifting sand?
One hand knows the other hand too well
One ear knows the other cannot spell
But that’s no excuse for your chronic noose
Everything’s a ruse.
Did you get your freak on?
Are you killing time between the wars?
Are you staying busy in the sack
With those battle scars?
Will we ever make time
To evaluate what we have wrought
Now that everything we’ve known and loved
Has been sold or bought?
Sometimes, when the fluorescence is right,
We flaunt our gigantic stores of might
We have loaded pants and can barely dance
‘Cause we’d rather prance.
Fell down, so you might as well get crushed
Ignore all that rustling underbrush
It’s just smoky glass, not the distant past
Coming on too fast.
Are you wearing argyle?
Are you writing books on hated loves?
Can you pick a topic for debate
Without tongs or gloves?
Will we ever take time
To dissect the present while it’s here?
Maybe, though, we all should just grow up
And go drink some beer.
© 2004 John Brocato
(January 22 – 26, 2004)
Are you singing songs of brain and brawn?
Are you driving through the daylit world
With your headlights on?
Are you humming sweetly?
Are you smart or too Republican?
Do you pull your weight or someone else
Through the shifting sand?
One hand knows the other hand too well
One ear knows the other cannot spell
But that’s no excuse for your chronic noose
Everything’s a ruse.
Did you get your freak on?
Are you killing time between the wars?
Are you staying busy in the sack
With those battle scars?
Will we ever make time
To evaluate what we have wrought
Now that everything we’ve known and loved
Has been sold or bought?
Sometimes, when the fluorescence is right,
We flaunt our gigantic stores of might
We have loaded pants and can barely dance
‘Cause we’d rather prance.
Fell down, so you might as well get crushed
Ignore all that rustling underbrush
It’s just smoky glass, not the distant past
Coming on too fast.
Are you wearing argyle?
Are you writing books on hated loves?
Can you pick a topic for debate
Without tongs or gloves?
Will we ever take time
To dissect the present while it’s here?
Maybe, though, we all should just grow up
And go drink some beer.
© 2004 John Brocato
(January 22 – 26, 2004)