Scavengers

In the cool of the season

In the frigid temperatures

Sweeping up others like him

♪ Wandering ♪

He picks up rusty strings

He’s long forgotten his mastery

Only remembered the tune of a brunette’s song

He picks up the faded pocket watch

Even though the hands are dead

And time goes on and on and on

He picks up his ash-dusted pipe

“No longer in the mood he once was

But he wants to fall into a pine of thought again

He picks up wishes, he picks up fantasies.

He picks up calls, he picks up echoes.

In fact, what he picks up

A hollow utopia

An empty utopia

We are all scavengers

We are all scavengers, picking up an antidote to the slow change of life.