Mean mr. mustard says he’s bored
Of life in the district.
Can’t 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 won’t betray
The things that I hide.
There’s not enough years underneath
This belt, for me to admit the way
That I felt.
Mean mr. mustard says don’t be
The wave that crashes
From a sea of discontent, he says
He’s wrestled with that blanket...
It leaves you cold and wet
Any way you stretch it
Divine apathy! disease of my youth
Watch that you don’t catch it.
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