Your hair on the road is my table turned over.
Your town in the mountains; my town on the plains.
Your desert, my rain.
She'll send you a postcard....the walking breast.
She's bobbing along. She's looking her best.
Whatever beach, a myth for a week
The stamp...my reality reigns
A dress my reality rains.
Your sunshine on my shoulders looks so uhhhh ly.
Our laughter, our bruises, our yawns, and our woes.
The measure of friendship that nobody knows.
Oh that sounds so Hallmark.
I should write something dark.
An elegant mess we've both made of our lives.
From hostel to hotel and both of us wives.
We both know we've landed...we're not going to move.
There ain't much more to prove.
We break our daily bread
and drink our juice of fools
and share the daily overdose of useless high school rules
by recounting chats with them who do but really don't
and say that they'll come by but really won't.
But every time I think I've played my last card
A new deck comes in the mail
Along with the specialty magazine--the F cup is on sale.
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