Down to This

                                  You get the ankles

And I get the wrists.

You get the ankles

And I get the wrists.

You get the ankles

And I get the wrists.

You come down to this.



Nerves are up

And the eyes all screwy

Blood like a panful

Of boiling ratatouille



Hang from the axles of a box car

Follow the dotted line

Like a steer to Chicago

To the hooks of the Chicago man



I get all tripped up

My eyes turn to water

Rug burns from a shag rug

Struck dumb in the presence

Polyester burns from a jacket

Rub the skin thin

Break down in a diner

Then I pay the bill



Cashier toothpick stuck in the ground

Tiny lawnmower to mow me down

I could get lost in a lunchbox

Lie low in the mittens in the lost and found