Fake Fireball Island

She’s not quite quiet

It’s a chemical imbalance,

A volatile mixture

All shook up inside.

It’s dangerous for anyone

Who tries to get close.

It’s a difficult thing

To really understand.

She’ll be doing laps around you,

Make you feel like an old fool.

Now I know I’ve got a new one.

She says she wants to cook for me,

Hope there’s nothing up her sleeve.

She’ll be bicycling around the city

While I wander and wonder if it’s working.

It seems that neither of us can quite win,

We’ll get the honeymooner’s syndrome again.

Real Pit BBQ

As long as the sun

Comes up in the morning

And the moon don’t crack

And splinter New Orleans,

As long as the songs

Keep writing themselves,

Your effort will never

Go by unnoticed;

You’ll get your reward

When you pay for your gift

And you wake up dead.

At least you’ll be somewhere

Where money don’t matter

With your pride by your side

And a twisted halo.