Lately, I've realized that as a child

the sound of the air raid siren

never bothered me, when it sang of Fridays.

And that in the past,

I had been indestructible.


Things were just like that.


And now, every night I listen for a plane

And every night I hear it coming.

And when it does not come,

I go through the motions again.


Everybody dies sometime.


I die a tiny bit every day,

when I tell myself little stories

and when I am done

only that hollow feeling

eating at me from the inside out.


copyright 1977

the Dirtballs