Doing some final accounting
When you find out how he gets paid, alright
And porn speaks to it's splintered legions
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Lava flowin' in Super Farmer's direction
He said with such broad and tentative swipes
He's been gettin' reprieve from the heat
On the street and the epitome of vague
In the long grasses over time
If there's nothing more that you need now
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Why do you even bother, yeah
To the pink amid the withered corn
In the frozen-food section, yeah
Lawn cut by bare-breasted women
While aiming at the archetypal father
Don't tell me how the universe is altered
Those Himalayas of the mind
Don't tell me what the poets are doing
Don't tell me that they're talkin' tough
Don't tell me what the poets been doing
Beach bleached towels within reach for the women
Somehow not anti-social enough, alright
Don't tell me that they're anti-social
Stalks in them winter regions, yeah
Above the reckonin' carts
