Driving home, city lights go flapping down the highway,
each one a tumble-down moon on the horizon.
Every car a spinning, whirling turbine
spun by the flow of music over soft-speakers.

Flown street-low the hammer flow horizon
Spies on each street there are spies.
And fast-food horizons spot lightning to fare
from the tip of the top of the top.

Pop, off one memory, two, twixt man a broken flash
of back-off days of rainy basements and sundry
broken shells on the horizon.

You cheer on you fear happiness to hear
you steal and you deal and you make this appeal
to be humble and rumble the same!

Shame on you that do sham the land
shame on you that would quarrel.
(Shame to moose and sham to the squirrel.)
I’ll be humble and blumble and bland!

To say that I have not lost my way
Is saying I’m neighing a cow
But who is to say I might nay pass this way?
I’ll do it and I’ll tell you how!

The light twisted withered, and the hammer dropped dead
the dawn and horizon were one.
And this lamp, twixt dullen and sullener days,
did burn up until it was done.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
nothing humble this way comes.