You’re on the porch amidst the pith
Of seven rotten oranges And regrets that
You unraveled after pulling them off the tree.
I drove through cardiac traffic to get here, Bodies hanging out of windows, gunned the throttle,
Killed the bottle, all so’s not, so’s not to see.
My head was a sledgehammer.
The lawns were impeccably manicured, But the council found a blade
Was out of place and that there’d be
Hell to pay, today,
I’m here to exact revenge
On behalf of all the overwatered greenery.
My luck, my love,
Survived the blast from up above. Her hand, her touch,
We’ll soon find out what’s left of us.
You’d been underground for most of seven years, Since the studio wars went nuclear.
They brought Mitchell from the nursing home To negotiate détente.
And in the aftermath they crawled out: Game show hosts and actors,
Holy ghosts and pastors,
Corn fed boys in leather, and an Alcoholic aunt.
Mankind, mistrust,
The balance sheets had all gone bust. But my luck, my love,
We’ll soon find out what’s left of us.
I wanna take you to Griffith Park.
I hear the radiation’s falling.
We’ll put a blanket on the overlook And watch the half-life neon crawling.
Though the leaves have all turned black, I’ll put sunscreen on your back
And we’ll hike to the observatory.
And when we get through with the park I’ll take you to the movies
Though they haven’t got concessions
Or a picture on the screen.
And we will dance the darkened theater, And playing it from memory,
We’ll run through Kiss Me, Deadly, and We’ll laugh about the ending
As we pantomime each scene.