the undead hide in the living room
you took for granted what’s in grant’s tomb
it’s four-twenty, it’s not high noon
the whos are asking why
teleconferencing face-to-face
your inner world is in outer space
and thrown out stealing first base
we’ll laugh until we cry
the crowd is standing all alone
cold-calls with no way too atone
squeezing til the blood turns into stone
there is no do, there’s only try
riddled through with empty koans
serious attempts at silly jokes
signalling the time to smoke
hopes beyond hope
hopes beyond hope
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