Nothing comes from nothing,
yet something always does;
you can smell the future coming
long before the buzz,
sitting on the front porch
listening to the rain
as the winter fades away
and summer comes again.
I can’t speak for Michigan
but I can see Ohio
rusted into sentimental dreams.
Knowing there is nothing left
but giving it one more try;
oh, nothing’s ever really
what it seems.
Idle hands find mischief,
that’s what they tend to do;
you can’t make a liar honest
thinking that he’s true.
Thinking turns to dreaming
where nothing’s ever done;
ain’t much comes to those who wait
without working some.
I can’t speak for Michigan
but I can see Ohio
lost in faded technicolor dreams.
Knowing there is something left
to say before goodbye;
oh, something more important
than it seems.
Dreams of California
turn to chalk and dust;
what you don’t intend to do
don’t seem to matter much.
Lonely days grow empty,
wishing wells run dry;
everything is living
up until it dies.
I can’t speak for Michigan
but I can see Ohio
growing old and busted at the seams.
Thinking there ain’t anything
but a lost, longing sigh
or anything to sell
but an old dream.
12 JAN 2014
