Turn Tears To Wine, To Remember It All Again
Clap your hands along the bay-blue brick path,
Lined in pure white cobblestone hexagonal runes.
We’re here to enjoy the Ides Of March,
Drink a lot, smoke a bit, share what’s left in laughs.
We’re nostalgic, I love you-
The radio’s whistling Miles Davis.
Cheers to silver memories,
Wasting in the dark, sealed inside a tomb.
I’m ascending away in a red, white, and blue pin-striped plane.
Seated With the ones wanting escape,
The plane remains silent, ‘cept for a cough,
From a tip-topped Uncle Sam who revels in making it rain.
We’ve become simplistic, I don’t know you-
I’d turn tears to wine, Just to remember it all again.
The radio doesn’t bump anymore,
It fritters, then weeps, and turns into The Blues.