Shooting Stars

My mind takes place in another dimension
with voices at a table holding a convention.
I'm off shooting stars out of the sky
as clocks sprout wings and learn to fly.

One star falls and I wish for more money.
As the second one dies I wish for a honey.
More and more fall to the earth's cold ground
reappearing in a clutter called the lost and found.

The sky is falling, at least that's what they say,
but we're still all here at the end of the day.
Each day a new person drives me up another damn wall
as they look me in the mouth like a gift horse in a stall.

They said to eighty six my head because it's too much,
but I say they can't throw away what they can't touch.
The newspapers speak of the guy that killed time.
His lawyer says he has no reason and no rhyme.

I guess I'm not the only crazy one in my head.
They say things will get worse and dark ahead.
Can't see how that's possible, it rains cats and dogs,
if things got any worse it would rain horses and hogs.

Everyone prepares for the next day with a dry run
while I let my mind take over and I sit shotgun.
Running like a robot, programed to do things right.
Screw one thing up and you're shut down for the night.

Riding the day away trying to get to skid row,
just to separate from people and everyone I know.
They say it's all over, but simply I turn a blind eye.
I'll be here as long as I can shoot stars from the sky.