Sounds like a toddlers cup
Or a married hippie lady
But we're not supposed
To use that old binary code.
Tall pines, tons of rain
Southern food galore
Black-eyed peas please
Rooting for rutabagas
And yams not sweet taters
Cos flavor and texture matter.
You can drive from Natchez
To Nashville on a 2-lane road
Without a Trace of a red light
Or even a motel
Unless you need gas
Or food
Or conversation
But that's the rub.
Faces without names
Order please, keep that mask on
Keep your distance
Intimacy might be deadly
But casual chat is safe
Or so it seems.
Life is on SloMo
Even the mail
Takes a week or so
But that's everywhere now
And we wait
For the Apocalypse
Or maybe a newer song
But no cigarettes
And no sex
No touching at all
No sharing even a lighter
You might die
Or so we are told.
The stories are real
But it all seems surreal
As if universal cryogenics
Is our only hope.
Was Rip vW a pioneer
Or a prophet?
Meanwhile
Ol' Man River
Keeps on rollin'
The deer and the alligators play
And we all are living
In a virtual reality
Except for those
Who aren't.
