I don’t want a lover, but I’m weary of sleeping alone   And so, it seems the seasons have changed   The flies are all fucking   The children are running and talking and planning their weekends   While the raindrops explode on the pavement   The seagulls being their long journey across the bay       I felt the clouds in my rear view mirror   But they scaled as I drove   They enveloped the passenger seat   They were close enough for me to count every droplet   That comprised their shapeless mass      I’m growing constantly more unaware of my surroundings   On the bricks are a set of alphanumerical characters I can’t read   A girl in decoupage dreams of a shoreline   And writing her name in the sands of its beach      They run to the fields in attempt to recover their friends and their fathers   Who were lost in fistful of fires that burned up the family parish      I don't want a lover, but I'm tired of sleeping alone   And so, it seems the seasons have changed   The flies are all fucking      We tried to bottle Martian air   Turns out that it was atropine   The calm, collected anvil is dropping names   He's jovial      They watch the paper vacillate and shift in hue, until one remains   It then begins to sing a song   The language in which still befogs   Dissimulates and execrates out souls   Until they're satiate