O Bummer by the Young Sinclairs

The year two-thousand and seven - the heat is dripping off the bricks of our decorated tomb - space - there's people moving away ("you gotta move") - relation-ships crumbling and sinking along with whatever treasure was rumored to be on board - but for everything that falls apart there is something being constructed - ("L-U-V") - a song or a friendship or a control booth - ("a hippy-drippy name-dropper came to my door") and lying in bed - laying - suppose you have to? Still writing and still singing and still playing but never being still, only sometimes ("sometimes always" + "here there and everywhere") and some record-reviewer uses the word 'pastiche' like a fine critique or artiste. But "you're too afraid to sing" ("I said that"). Oh yeah, and family tree came out - far out - books and pianos and intellectual paraphernalia - surrealist games and the realest pain - review my pain, why dont'cha? huh? (it's ours too - (notice no quotations) ["taste my mouth in your ear"]. HA! now there's one for ya - these are songs and poems and rhythmical exorcism exercises in tension and release - think what you want.