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Lyrics
You'd cut the clothesline down if you could,
Let you're clean laundry
roll round the neighborhood.
Then you'd write clever songs,
about the dead spots on lawns,
and the havoc
your wardrobe
had wrought.
But most of your neighbors
have guns.
They drink more than they think,
and they don't drink enough.
So you smoke cigarettes,
sit and stare at the fence,
and pretend
that you don't
want to run.
And the calluses soften with age.
The sweet gentle scars
from your third hand guitars,
are lost like the music you made,
the dive-bar stool muse,
and the youth
you were bound to mislay.
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