|
Mean Mr. Mustard says he's bored
|
of life in The District.
|
Can't afford the French Quarter high
|
says it gets old real quick
|
and he pales up next to me
|
scrawled on the pavement
|
It says: Son, time is all the Luck
|
you need.
|
And if I stay Lucky then my tongue
|
will stay tied, and I won't betray
|
the things that I hide.
|
There's not enough years underneath
|
this belt, for me to admit the way
|
that I felt.
|
Mean Mr. Mustard says don't be
|
the wave that crashes
|
From a sea of discontent, he says
|
he's wrestled with that blanket...
|
It leaves you cold and wet
|
any way you stretch it
|
Divine apathy! Disease of my youth
|
watch that you don't catch it
|
|
|
-----------------
|
Lucky
|
| 7 Mary 3 |
