It's in the quiet I hear you.
My lungs elastic as they draw you in
with each comforting breath.

The memories of the day
expand my peace of mind
and careen my heart into you,

as you slumber next to me,
here in the solitude of our night.

Satan's on T.V.
I see his parties everyday
Game-hosts grinning, "Honey,
"Here's the game; we'll play"

Shaded metaphors for sex,
Lots of glitz, some tits, and cash
Burn your scruples, and your soul,
Turn them all to ash

Flashing lights and head psyches,
Commercials all too loud
Musical skits, with shaking tits
Hear the screaming of the crowd

Now look at co-host Carol,
She smirks at Kevin, all aside
Her legs are smooth and silky
As her skirt goes for a ride

Me and little buddy
we've traveled near and far.
Galaxian storm troopers
just looking for a bar.
Some place to lay our baggage down
and break out our guitars.
Turn our amps up loud
and find some folks to jar.
The sound may be annoying,
but they won't get very far
There's no place in the system
except this distant star.
They'll have to scurry outside
and sleep out in there cars'.
We'll make a raucous noise,
with sounds like weird citars.
Smoke a little dope

she checks her sons pockets for change and gold coated lockets before tossing his trousers and collared shirts in the wash
she folds each pair inside out and sets the water to cold
she inspects his whites for signs of stains when the dryers' bell tolls
with her long hair tied up, untidy
her nimble fingers fold his clothes ever so gently
she hums to herself and smiles with pride
thinking of the work he'll do with these clothes on his back
she puts extra care into washing his business wear