di Bunnell
AMERICA
Sometimes late
When things are real
And people share the gift of gab
Between themselves
Some are quick
To take the bait
And catch the perfect prize
That waits among the shelves
But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn’t, didn’t already have
And cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of Sir Galahad
So please believe in me
When I say I’m spinning ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round
Smoke glass stain’d bright colors
Image going down, down, down, down
Soapsud green like bubbles