Mean mr. mustard says hes bored
Of life in the district.
Cant afford the french quarter high
Says it gets old real quick
And he pales up next to me
Scrawled on the pavement
It says: son, time is all the luck
You need.

And if I stay lucky then my tongue
Will stay tied, and I wont betray
The things that I hide.
Theres not enough years underneath
This belt, for me to admit the way
That I felt.

Mean mr. mustard says dont be
The wave that crashes
From a sea of discontent, he says
Hes wrestled with that blanket...
It leaves you cold and wet
Any way you stretch it
Divine apathy! disease of my youth
Watch that you dont catch it.  ¶ 9:45 PM