a child wonders into a half kept store
looking for what is to be misplaced
shrugs off the intentions of lifes whore
carrying back his treasures to his space

old phonographs "n" players lie in dust
to fix their problem, lies pressing
if it worked before, then again it must
the sands fall in time of those left missing

pick out that old radio left in trash
tune in to the life of someones brother
ya know you'll look twice at anothers crash
as you try so hard to console his mother

parts and wheels dont hold ones fascination
years pull in ones doubt of what is real
sooner or, later you search emancipation
what is what, "n" what has become real

wasn't the drugs which held his mind
was more of the way ones' mind ticked
and if life appeared to be so unkind
after all it was just what life mimicked

as he turned to work on bigger things
guns weeped up his mind
something about what mankind brings
had made him feel so unkind

and he struggles with what is right
as is the clicking of his well oiled gun
the urge to kill is weighed heavy in his sight
but, it's not fixed until it's done

but, that ole clock keeps ticking for now
for that young boy had given up
to fix what wasn't important now
and walk slowly pass all lifes junk

funny tho, how you remember the clock
and the sound of the lil hammer
you will take that sound to your light
click, bang is the workings of his clock...................



~~michael~~


I hope you all understand..........