Her tongue told of scrambled eggs and cigarettes,
not her notebook full of I-just-haven’t-yet’s.
She greets me in the morning with her Listerine kisses.
Her game genie daddy’s grants her endless wishes.
Jesus took a shower down Venice Beach,
washing off the salt from the waves.
Her Daddy’s in the church underneath a flag.
You know what they say, “God, Country, Grave.”
Skyscrapers cover up the harvest moon.
Feeling like a seed cast on stone.
A night so cold it was itchin’;
it ain’t just the roots that won’t leave her alone.
No it’s not the girl, and it’s not the war
it ain’t the general, or his orders
it’s not the getting lost, or the cost or the fate –
it’s the thought you hate.
I would take it all back, but it’s no good.
I would take it all back, if I could.