Pot Helps pt. 27

I left it in the South
where down there everyone is an open mouth
And I wouldn’t have had to feel this way up to and including now,
no, now
If my tires weren't going ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
to the inside sound,
and the outside sights,
To the way we can’t help how we are all always bathed in light, even at night
and
Out here on those American highways with names that always end in a zero or five
I was adding miles, subtracting time,
feeling finally alive for once in a lifetime,
feeling like I could have screamed your name to stop time,
and live in four-bar measures that do nothing but repeat your eyes.

Because I don’t need shit, as long as I got my weed and my wine,
you fucking goons might as well be dying the way you live your lives
Always on the try, reach, achieve,
never on the do.
Always on the ‘this is what they say I am’
and not the ‘who am I, who are you?’
And I’m not about to label all the things that make me down and out,
war, family, friendship, money and doubt,
Not going to gather and organize my pouts.
Not going to stop and listen so you can tell me what life is all about,
because I’m the ugly mouth, the afterlife scout,
the one your mothers should have but didn’t know how to warn you about.
the one who pays no attention to the mongering, stuffing, spitting, open mouths,
the one who says:
When death comes, I’m out.