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 It's
throwing cheap plastic toys in its wake She clutched
her precious objects that held no meaning for him His
face was a jackal it seemed to her in the dim Transfixed
and horrified he watched it snack on some kind of albino
cake She stuffed her screeching child into a stroller
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 Slow motion in a crashin'
car Her halo formed in broken glass And get your giblets
torn off Yellow police tape and a blonde wig I guess
you went too fast The impossible dream, yes you will find out