We’ll take the old chevy out,
when I come back,
Into the arid, dry-dust heat of the fields
And whisper that the hay
isn’t growing fast enough.
The fire burns down in the canyon here
and we lie awake at night
too hot, too thirsty, too dry
and talk about when it’ll spread this way.
We talk about this…
Instead of that.
Danny didn’t keep a watchful eye on us,
back in the old days, did he?
We ran amok on that banana yellow school bus
rusting in the fallow fields
all peeling paint and seats that vomited mustard foam and rusty springs.
We ran into it’s foggy heat
and snuck kisses.
Anyway, the clock ticks on here
and the fire keeps on burning
and I wonder why they still talk about me, back home.
It wasn’t that bad,
what I did,