In warm dreams we were jumping off
A music staff–
Little black eighth notes hurrying along the pages.
In our rushed coda
We became polyphonic,
Our flags becoming stems–
My heart beating in tempo with yours.
Tell Mozart to put a repeat sign at the end of our song.
Radio fuzz blurs the messages they send you.
Zealot car dealers scream over our song
Tearing down the sweet reminiscence of us.
Pop slaughters an original from the vault–
Screaming white girls trying to recover the gospel blues
Reminds me of us trying to keep it glued together.
You can dress it up but it still rots from the inside.
I don’t care for the new style–that fake ingenuity–
Words mean nothing unless you say them right.