My father was born in a year of flying saucers. He keeps waiting for them to come back for him, but since he's still on this planet, we celebrated his sixty-sixth birthday today with hamburgers and angelfood cake and books. My mother is reading my niece's unbirthday present to her, a picture book about being followed around by ideas. I spent some time clearing branches out of the side yard. My father is talking about New York City; my brother leaves for Radolfzell tomorrow. Geopolitically, things are worse every time I look. On the household level—this is important—today is all right.
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- 1: When I invited Frank and you back to mine for a mange tout when I meant ménage à trois
- 2: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 3: The shadows on the walls don't recognize me anymore
- 4: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
- 5: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 6: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 7: You know this city like the back of your hand, but deep roots are holding me down
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- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by and
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