highways and high ways.

I've got all the world in a converse box
that'll be the way it ends; never how it starts
with old scarves wrapped round new
hearts and shiny toy guns with bullets
made of pipes
the old men'll sit and stare with smoke
like halos above their heads
ironic how it still smells of fallen rain
and cigarette tales.
this towns gonna be the death of me
(maybe a heart attack walking through
the cemetary?)
like a gigantic sign against the sky, 'this
is your sign' it will say
life can be an ass sometimes
but it keeps me the same, maybe being
too strange will keep me sane,
but it's a longshot
why not go for it?
in a town this small there's really no where
to fall but up
I guess things are looking up.