Fresh Air

 Out of whack, hay stack

I'm in a field without a meal

In the can without a plan

On the straight and narrow arrow

I'm in a jam with a little lamb

Down the pan and far from real

Making an appeal

To an orange peel

Too much to grind its rind

I'm asking it to slip and slide

Off the edge of the tide

And be my bride, be on my side

In the war to end all wars

I've got my Goat, but whose got his?

Is it yours or is it the Kid's?

I've asked you twice now I can't write

The potato blight has blotted my ink

And I can't think inside the sink

No I can't stink on the brink

Its in my brain I've got the grain

Its all this toil in the soil

Washed down my drain with the rain

In the forests of the night

Its off the leaf and suffered relief

It's dripping, tripping donkey brief

As Ehor, or Elron, deltron, electron

Mastercard poor

American express, is useless, unless

You can self-express first

I don't mean breast milk

But the best silk or satin sleeves

When the shore rises and you can't believe

Your luck to be where you were born

Inside the truck driving through the storm

And suddenly bright lights are torn

From the dawn's hue, as cascading

Valleys of thorn criss-cross in virtue

Of being new

Or solidarity of what we've all been through

Before, before the storm

There was no time

And 

We wait it out

And give up doubt

Because somewhere, somehow

We must come out

Into fresh air