A boy on a train with a birthmark on his foreheadListening to
language tapes and all he hear is birdsEveryone laughs cause he
brings his own chair to the officeConvinced that the cushions
will give him steadier thoughtsThe muscles of the intellectuals
are atrophyingNobody’s running, nobody’s hidingThey’re lit by a
light that isn’t even the sunLit by a light that isn’t even the
moonAve maria…Now how many times have i told you not to go
there?How many times have i begged you not to go?And how many
times have you snuck down to that cellarJust to watch how the
roots begin to grow straight up through our floor?
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