Yellow Dirt

He gets up every morning and he lights upon the floor.

He migrates to the washroom and he opens up the door.

The whiskers on his chin tells him he's in, and then

Through the paste and the soap, sees an image without

hope.

He's a broom of a fellow, an oddity in parenthesis.

So infected with disease of yellow dirt down in his

soul.

He usually spends his spare time counting hairs upon

his arm.

The ants upon the cupboard to his thinking add their

charm.

He never starts to notice that his shoes are full of

lead.

He's dead, through cough. Labored breathing, he is

seething.

He's a sandwich of a fellow, an all-spread personality.

So infected with disease of yellow dirt down in his

soul.

Last night a thousand stars were his to mold like clay,

and so

In one split second's anger he did reach and take a

hold.

He saw himself a captain way off in some kissin'

situation.

That would have made his father proud, he laughs out

loud.

He conceals the hurt. He reveals the dirt.

The yellow dirt down in his soul. The yellow dirt down

in his soul.

The yellow dirt down in his soul. The yellow dirt down

in his soul.