Down the street I'll park the car You go ahead Meet me inside There's no reason for us to both go through with it On the way I'll call about this guitar Don't want to sell, but I'm in the red Plus I just don't know what to do with it Had I been more awake this morning I would have seen the coming warnings: The calendar, the pens, Sunday on the phone again Today we'd stand alone with pines Instaed of with produce, in endless lines How does preparation for the week require the entire weekend? Shop for gloves among evergreens Long woolen skins in unsubtle themes And entire season on a credit card Observing loves, rare freindships seen manifest their greatest deeds With facing feet from numbered dressing stalls The next time you say to me "This week's just a day too long" Well your days are getting shorter, and as a gentle reminder Under boots tan needles break Every Sunday I pray you'll see That you're doing this thing all wrong Because down on the corner, among the pines Hopelessly small and still, they defy the rake