mean mr. mustard says he’s bored of life in the district.
can’t afford the french quarter high, says it gets old real quick and he pales up next to me scrawled on the pavement
it says: son, time is all the luck you need.
and if i stay lucky then my tongue will stay tied, and i won’t betray the things that i hide.
there’s not enough years underneath this belt, for me to admit the way that i felt.
mean mr. mustard says don’t be the wave that crashes
from a sea of discontent, he says he’s wrestled with that blanket…
it leaves you cold and wet any way you stretch it
divine apathy! disease of my youth
watch that you don’t catch it.