The woman with the jam jars bumped into me
Half of my head belonged to the bystander
Not long to go now
I find new verve from discarded items

The soles of my feet pushed against the clouds
A face appears covered in a street map
Hold onto my hook
All that's missing is his golden Mustang

Overpowered by the taste of the 70s
A shared diary filled with mediocrity
It has been misplaced
The rat race ends with a spam email

Thoughts were left unturned and in reverse
In my reflection I could see Miss Prudence
We are an all inclusive
The old hat brings about a rapacious end recover

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