The Spit in the Fire

There was a dollar sign attached to my name and it was red with purple flowers engraved,
It was coarse and simplistic, and exactly what it should be which was something not at all fantastic.
It was clearly defined, with no blurred or broken lines, and a font that was clearly visible,
And despite all that they saw they did not quite get it, even though its wore its position with ease,
And when winter did come, and the prices did fall with the snow white presipitation,
A catalog of familiar folk songs arrived quietly unchained and ranting on just about everything
That in the summer the thaw did come, and the quiet little foxes rode off in the light
That the dollar sign attached that said what the catch was was still there too.
So no more toil when they said I made no sense, that's right I don't make cents, I'm all cash,
All the time so keep your change to yourself.
See what you want through glazed over glassy eyes,
And let fog fall around, and swarm about,
Let the toadstool landing spew falsehoods on an empty cotton plain,
And simply forbid the world from advancing,
Take the time to forbid the dancing,
For the dollar sign though can be broken in half, a 50/50 shot int he dark,
Will take this car and we'll park, and go necking in the park, under the scrutiny of accountants,
Who will glue back the dollar sign attached to my being,
And say, see even though you changed the coat you can't change the horse,
Colors remain to remain to be seen, and the crimson light from a blood red moon,
Does not make the man mourne when he kicks the can in the day,
When the song is song, and simple little tune, is cut shorter down in the day light wane,
Don't forget to curse me, and slam the door when you go,
Run away and hide and continue to bide the time that it'll take before I'm through with the charade,
In the midst of an ocean of preposterous design where every one and their mother,
Knows just what must be done,
Departing the two cents said tot eh dollar sign I'm afraid apart I'm not much at all, and even though you are there,
Youre still cracked in twain, and torn asunder, under the watchful eye of your lair,
So take your tone, and be done and run all the way home,
Cry in the pit of your self pitied sit,
Tempting to the crow to pluck out the eyeball,
On a laughing bonanza of crimson tundra,
On the frosted hills where polar bells slide,
And penguins waddle two and fro,
Take it in ounces but never in pounds,
For fear of over compensating, and thus over dosing on amore.
It's a disease and it's fresh, but it'll rot out your breath, as your teeth begin falling out of your head.
Love is a many splendid and horrid litlte thing,
And maybe you should pick out the dirt from your eye holes,
And cut the shit,
Just cut the shit,
This little old worthless dollar sign, is not a dollar,
Just the rerpsentative of a dollar,
The knight can save you,
But I'm just the town's fool,
Prancing about in some weak and muddied armor.
Let's face it you wanted something who slay that damned dragon,
And while I was good at the laughing,
I'm not much good, at much else at all.
And that my dear is what happens.