the easy mark & the old maid

some men collapse at the racetrack

they're wrong and beat up their eyes black

others wilt in casinos

roll dice and piss away speedboats

some dissolve into bar stools

scratched off in boxes and playoff pools

i spent myself on a psychic

i lost my way and a friend said she would find it

man

you were wrong

man

you were wrong

i asked for the future

she only sang me a song

some men

they go make their own luck

grow fat from feeding on lame ducks

the easy mark and the old maid

the invalid and the ingrate

others wait for that high sign

some holy hoax in the treeline

me

i'm counting my canned food

bunkered down

waiting out our slingshot moods

but what if i'm wrong?

what if i'm wrong?

i'll open my doors up

people

come sweep me along

eyes are fixed and my palms are spread

dissonance floats my shipwrecked head

god sleeps in the gaza strip

and man alone's left to live with it

the coin-flip faith of the optimist

it's beginners luck in a sewing kit

what to do when there is no fix

on the unflinching ambivalence?

but you say that's wrong

hopeless and wrong

we re-thread your needle

for your sake

i'll play along