Stripped from the waist down we’re rolling,
Tumbling like Jack, falling like Bill,
Land with a bump and a few scratches, but still –
You bleed a fortune into your hands.
If tomorrow was a wastebasket,
I think I’d wish for snow, some way to keep it all, in a massive snow-globe.
If tomorrow weren’t our future, I’d drink apple cider till my lips burst like berries.
When tomorrow does come, I hope it comes cloudy,
Lacking all the things that would give present clarity.
When tomorrow does come, I’d want to escape it
With red cherry shoes, and strings of red tape.