You and your blue shirt
You and your blue shirt
You and your auto-pilot
Circling through the room
High above the bed
Looking like a mobile unit

You and your tennis-shoes
Birds in a cage and
Clouds outside
Drifting by the window
Like big ships
You and your blue shirt

You and your blue shirt

You and your sea-shell eyes
And your pop-song lies
Watching time go by
Like a
Parade on the fourth of July
You and your drunk friends

You and your bird in a cage
Your little house near the mountains
And all the sentences you made up
You and your big mug of coffee
Every morning since 1972
You and your blue shirt

You and your blue shirt

You and your mouthful of dreams
And your filthy hands
On someone else’s skin
You and all your tenderness
You and your kisses soft with gin
You and your motherless mind

You and the mountains
You the director of unconscious scenery
Calling black jets
To soar through her soul
While she is not awake
You and your blue shirt

You and your blue shirt …

You and your subway evenings
Your list of airplanes
How many crossed the sky above your house
Last night? The night before?
You and your digital door

You and all the wives you had
And all that talk about your dad
You and your telephones
Your twilight zones
You and your songs about the ocean
You and your blue shirt
You and your blue shirt