I long for the days when they carpet the highway
And they no longer report accidents on the radio
Just rough and tumbles
A world where singers and painters don't overdose
Or don't feel the need to
Where money can't buy you
Anything anyone else can't have
A place where they don't consolidate sprinters into groups of eight
Because each person only runs against the person they were yesterday
I long for the days we all go outside in the rain
And we don't let work get in the way
When work is playful
And where exit signs can be made from oak or pottery
Because they never get bent
I can't wait to live in a place where
Nothing gets bent
Everything is flexible but
Nothing gets bent
Where people understand what I say
Where they believe me
Where my hands are heard and my words are seen
Where people want to know more about me
I believe
The sky is here now