Pysma

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PJ Voorhees

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Why is my cheer as shallow as the creek?
And why should I be shallow
To prefer cheer to the bleak?
Why is my voice like the rustle of the leaf?
It's drawing some in closer,
Scaring others, makes them flee.

My bicycle is caked in rust
My rainboots have a coat of dust
And they get rinsed off in the puddles
As I'm walking home
There are no clouds, the kind of day
That made the ancient people say,
"The earth is a flat mass of rock,
The sky is but a dome"

Why is my work as poor as the farm boy?
But he won't have to read or write
To feel an ounce of joy.
Why have I only performed well when I can shed a tear?
Should all poetry break the heart
Of its victim, its reader?

My bicycle is caked in rust
My rainboots have a coat of dust
And they get rinsed off in the puddles
As I'm walking home
There are no clouds, the kind of day
That made the ancient people say,
"The earth is a flat mass of rock,
The sky is but a dome"

And why do I torture myself with words?
A thousand makes a picture is what we have always learned
Recordings will outlive me long after I have died
But some songs just don’t land until you hear them by the lakeside

How are some singers, like grass, ubiquitous?
How did they reach the halls of fame and legendary status?
My dreams today are no more vast than a cafe
Where I’ll beg for some exposure and I’ll perform for no pay

My bicycle is caked in rust
My rainboots have a coat of dust
And they get rinsed off in the puddles
As I'm walking home

There are no clouds, the kind of day
That made the ancient people say,
"The earth is a flat mass of rock,
The sky is but a dome"

There are no clouds, the kind of day
That made the ancient people say,
"The earth is a flat mass of rock,
The sky is but a dome"

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