My cup runs over with California,
and I could make no recompense
for its wealth against my poverty
but to throw my life into the sea,
and for such pride is no defense.
My cup runs over with California.
The airplanes piloted by God
that course above these hills at night
are caked in blood. And I have gnawed
their bones with fiendish appetite:
none shall contract such a debt and live.
What surety have I to give
but stones, all-grasping California?
I cannot pay for the air I breathe.
And so long as I move my pen
for the well-fed children of wealthy men,
not you nor I shall know reprieve.
Set me to shrivel in the sun,
and I will persist as a skeleton
to season your dinner with my curse.
Then keep strong charms inside your purse
and guard your fat heart, California.
Old fantasies go west to die.
None was deluded more than I.
My cup runs over with California.
Winter harvests the fruit of lies.
we have some xanax in the back of the cupboard, i think.
Are ;you keeping up on your meds?
Yes and yes.
