All of the days
Have been tired out schemes
Worn down and frayed
Like an old pair of jeans

Makes it hard
To instigate
I guess that's always been my fate

All of my friends
Have been numbered and filed
Living in boxes
Down on the tiles

Makes it hard
To integrate
I guess that's always been their fate

And when I see you on the street
Sidelong glances
Eyes that never meet
Shoes that seem to move a little faster
In case I speak

Over on Hawthorne
With a cart full of cans
Freezing at night
In a derelict van

Makes it hard
To regenerate
I guess that's always been his fate

All of the words
Are polished and planned
Written for no one
In a shaky old hand

Makes it hard
To resonate
I guess it's always been that way

Dirty little scribbles on the sidewalk
I guess it doesn't matter what they say
People seldom take the time to read them
But that's OK