When Will We Ever Make Sense?

Just sitting in the park,
looking out of my window,
waiting for the day to sing.
Whether you’re coming,
whether you’re going,
does it really mean anything?

Let time step on itself,
that way I don’t have to pretend.
Let money grow on trees,
so I don’t borrow…
…or I don’t have to lend.

She said…
Baby you’re welcomed.
Stay as long as you want.
When will we ever make sense?

But don’t you say a thing,
if another
comes in your want.
Because time does
ring a song,
but all the steps you’re dancing
all seem so wrong.

And if you think
that time is waiting,
you better take a closer look
because I think it’s fading.

I said…
Where does the spirit come from?
Where does the spirit go?
Listen to that harmonica play.
Listen to those words he has to say.

When will ever make sense?

© 1984 Michael C. Teniente in San Jacinto, CA.