Sunday is a killer. I want a festive time, a darling illness
Hands playing staccato violin
While the theme from psycho fills the room
Instead, the day's as vacant as an infant's dumb stare
In Mexico, the toreadors are having their day
Torturing bulls that would rather be sleeping
But here, the only things being tortured are the lawns
Wet down by their owners
'til soggy and numb. yesterday, while shopping
I saw three men on crutches
Buying galoshes for the women they loved
But today the only thing I hear are the ethnics outside
They're walking to church to bless baskets of eggs
Immobile things that will smell bad with time in this heat
This humidity
That has closed down even the stripper joints
It's sad to consider how much sweat is wasted today
Even sadder is when the night turns so arid
Nothing can shimmy. nothing can dance