Sherpa

me and the vivid girl in our hammock to the stars

staring into the fire before t.v., the remote control's on mars

in the dope of the pigment, in a poetic state of mind

in a flood of the country we lay down to kill some time

and we spoke languidly of the northern bee

and collecting dewdrops for tea underneath the cannonball tree

we were high, we were sherpa high

we conspired against old friends

we said we must be friends or die

and we've died a thousand times since then

and we spoke long, at length of the fight or flee

and of nothing in particularly underneath the cannonball tree

we spoke offhandedly of the new extremes

and of nothing in particularly underneath the cannonball tree

we're at the point where we love or hate it

we can write it down and obliterate it

when we're at the point when we neither love nor hate it

we can lay down and obliterate it