Party, over at midnight, sleep until two
A finger in the side, damning the rude outside
tearing your peach-fried mind
(that's bottom-of-the-sea borne)
and loving it

Hey, bone down there ain't no halfway 3-D ground
you'd turn on your arm to get the
chaos and deals in motion

and to best this is rote to end on a C note
Willie-boy checks his gun - go pistolero!
and turns to watch the surfer girls

Bag that blue hyaline
good sailing once you pay for your seas in gloaming

She, skin train below the wreck of pleasant rain
and clocks made of seed that falls to your feet
like motel ice

Dusk keeps the torque and I'll sing so long as
dreams speak of the flood (I see you in most of them)
but not the ruining shifts of sand

Here are the rules of life:
a tank to borrow, a cup to save.
In the wake and in the blood
the bleach-black sea rolls over
the diamond backs of surfer girls