He didn't stand up when they called his name,

Wasn't worth what he had.

To stand meant an hour, or maybe two

And that wasn't worth what he had.

They kept calling over the years,

Needing the numbers and the drawings.

The numbers didn't add, and pictures nearly always fall.

What he had wasn't worth what he knew.

Train depots and bus stations

In every lonely city.

From Pensacola to El Paso

To Arcata by the sea

Seen them all through hazy eyes

Smelled the phosphor in his history

A plain and empty bag

All its worth a memory.

When the circle closes, we'll strike a chord

And listen to the shimmer

Its gold and silver shinning lights.

Too small to really see.

Can't get it back, its gone on by

On a road we can't follow now.

The road that ends on Tchoupitoulas

I find a bank of colored clouds

Never will find the way out

Can't grasp the pretty baubles

But the bridge to Elysium spans the mountain

it will take me out of here.

Find my worth in the words

And send my worth to the sea.