lullaby

good night, america. tonight
you don’t matter. tonight you’re just
a shell around my room, and it’s cold out there.
i’ve got the heat up in here higher than i should,
too high to save the earth, keep it green and all that,
but it’s a small room after all and i’m cold.

good night, america. you’re a thin blanket tonight,
and the comfort you can offer me is just more rough fabric
on a tired hide. tonight i’m just another poor dog
far from home, wanting for nothing, really, but wishing
for so much more than this. it’s not enough for this
tired old pooch.

good night, america, i’m sure you’re something to see in the daylight
with your mountains and your majesty, but really,
when you’re always playing at being so far away, so remote, it’s all i can do
to remember half the words to the songs i used to sing you,
all that glory, those rockets, that flag. good night, america,
a man’s gonna die in this little room, maybe tonight, maybe later,
and it’ll be just another day for you, you and your spacious
and absent skies, so perfect if you look at them the right way.