I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice to be all clean and blank and safe.

Putting ships in bottles and smashing them on the side of a boat makes for a nice hobby as long as we hide it from the Sun.
And putting nukes in barracks and burying them under the Earth's crust can remain a pastime as long as we hide it from our sons.
Back to the land of dead cranes and careful basking in a solarium where Americans can complain in unison about the heat. Well, I whither with the weather but of whether or not I was born with it in my blood I've got an idea of which I do not speak. My cigarette's like a leash and every time I light one up I lift up my lung, place a penny between that old pillow and sheet. I've been having these dreams of cutting my teeth or at the very least busking for five minutes of attention from foreigners forever in bustling lucrative streets. And to put a hole, in the stratosphere by the 80s, their fathers put a hole in the head of Salvador Allende on 9-11 of '73. Forget Richmond. Remember Nixon and his House? Like every mouth south of the Mason Dixon spits out that Dixie diction. Yeah, write with a goal to sell history to the children and dubbing it fiction while cravate-wearing badass motherfuckers edit my malediction. I've been afflicted with the pain. The elixir is in my brain. And wouldn't it be rather nice if this type of nothingness had another name? Everything so sterile in your bubble, all clean and blank and safe, and free of peril and trouble like Sundays, like cookies and pies and cakes. I think it'd be nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice to be all clean and blank and safe.
And I do not remember losing my mind. But I recall having found it one day with a great surprise. And I barely remember getting so drunk that I jumped off that chair without health insurance and I've since decided that I am not paying the bill. Or maybe I will.
Maybe I'll learn to drink tap water for the first time in my life tonight, go swimming in a local cistern to earn my fill. I'm still sipping on my blue ribbons and ripping it without reward. Indoors I wait for time to take its course. I'm still on the mic of course.
Back to the back porch of a well-known ritual. Make a tableau for the visual. The residual effect will eventually begin to talk. Yo! I'm not a Picasso, not a Cezanne, not a Braque. Luckily though I am not concerned with what I am not. I am definitely a Pisces and perhaps sensitive. I've got the common sense to live my dreams. They seem so real that I would now know if they are but I'm at home like Troutfishing in America, not in the Lava, not in the Ground and not in the Sky, each element tucked up under my eye.
I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice to be all clean and blank and safe.