Where the Sidecar Ends

Come with me, to the bottom of the glass
Where you’re smart and you’re funny and you’ve got a great ass
Where you can’t smell the diapers and can hear your own thoughts
Where your shirt is not covered in spit-up or Mott’s.

Come with me, to the bottom of the glass,
Where there’s room for gray areas and space to be crass,
Where you no longer care what is stuck to your floor,
Be it beans, spuds, or remnants from last year’s Yom Kippur

Come with me, to the bottom of the glass
Where you don’t have to face off with bedhead or sass
And you’re light years away from today’s kinder din,
Come quick, though! Tomorrow’s today yet again.

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