My waiter is a brando affecting nicholson's smile

I feel a sort of compassion but choking down my dinner was a trial

The sixty-five year old poet, he's still finding his voice

I read his old yellow clipping calling him the poor man's shithouse joyce



The impossible dream, yes you will find out



His face was a jackal it seemed to her in the dim

She clutched her precious objects that held no meaning for him

She stuffed her screeching child into a stroller

It's throwing cheap plastic toys in its wake

Transfixed and horrified he watched it snack on some kind of albino cake



The impossible dream, yes you will find out



Start at the top and live like you're always willing to fall

But you know it makes no difference to me

This year you'll reinvent yourself and grow

Comfortably soft you'll jump over the barbed wire

And get your giblets torn off

Slow motion in a crashin' car

Her halo formed in broken glass

Yellow police tape and a blonde wig

I guess you went too fast



The impossible dream, yes you will find out


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