There's a fish in my stomach a thousand years old.

Can't swim a full circle, the water's too cold.

Burnt out cars in my fingers, conveyor belts flow, right angles and steam whistles, nothing can grow.

A big-antlered deer stepping into the road, a beautiful woman with her head in the stove.

The skyscrapers crumble heavy with rats. The wind's full of beer cans and whiffle ball bats.

This fish in my stomach wears a full length mink, but his teeth float in sherry in a jar by the sink.

He's the withered remains of Rin Tin Tin taking his new Cadillac out for a spin.

The endless sea of traffic lights never make a sound like Ben Franklin's electric kite crashing to the ground and the Winnebago skeletons beneath this bankrupt town.

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