The Mean

Another blue cigar-smoke night. That puts it somewhere close to a millionth time I’ve laid the guitar away, I’d say.

Everyone, everyone, in my audience would count this as lucky – to hang around so long – wish they had half my time.

They are all outdoing themselves to stay above the mean. So they qualify for the treatment that’ll rent them immortality. Never die so long as you are in the top 50 percent.

I don’t have to try. I am so far ‘above’ the mean. So far I don’t care. That’s why I am always going to be here.

You gotta be blue to play, to have in you, the Blues.

Why, you’re asking, do I keep getting ‘done’. Why keep going in to slip the Reaper? Beats the alternative, beats being passed over for a hit and seeing all that age rushing in. Been passed over before.

You see the time telling and the fire to be above 'the fifty' comes on so strong. You see them aflame for it. But you’ve lost some life – and those who haven’t have that little edge more. Lotsa people say 'mean' is the good word for the half:half split: 'it's the search for meaning'.

But you still stay so long, you use everything up. Your routine – fuck a duck – it gets hard set.

Everyone's scoring points, no one's making it better. It's all stayin' the same.

Stasis. A cold slipper.

Don’t know how many times I’ve written this shit on a coaster like this one.

Nothing changes, or ever will.

Blue nights, alright.

These lyrics never work out.

Ever.