Reckon you need a card, carry a card but
I’m no card-carrying, got no wallet
give me a wallet and I might carry for you
singing swing low & haul you on my back
and cry my eyes out for the death of lit. maybe the death of typewriting but never been a mourning for the death of the quill
stir the pot, tip it over, melt the witch
w/ ya fist up and swimming air, just like
the old days, well, send invitations for your obscenity trial and televise the revolution ’cause flyers change the world, christ all I want to do is put words to paper maybe read them loud?
calling to arms, does it mean I got to take off my coat?
got to be underground, can I keep my third flr. apt.?
needa burn down the big pub. houses, lend me matches?
dental plan, health plan, rebel 401k?
Dunno, just asking questions
rebel business never changed the world
just want change for coffee
just want change
reckon if you want change & you can’t change
I’d rather walk.
F.D. Marcél wanders around the eastern seaboard, haunts your local Labor Ready, writes like its magic, sleeps comfortably, etc.