We’re both  locked up in prisons,

each of our own device.

You’re successful in the suburbs.

I’m a bum in paradise.

You must maintain a style.

Gotta keep those meters fed

and make sure you wear that smile

on the front side of your head.

I live without a worry,

loose and fancy free.

You’re always in a hurry

and seeking therapy.

I got it made in the shade,

own a Cannondale bike.

They repossessed your Escalade.

Your union’s out on strike.

Must be a real bummer,

shoveling snow in May.

It’s like the middle of the summer here.

Every day.

The mother’s always ranting

Your kids are hooked on junk.

Your wife?

She’s shitfaced.

Panting.

Drunker than a skunk.

I’m surrounded by hot women.

A secluded private beach.

Sunnin’.

Surfin’.

Swimmin’.

I don’t mean to preach

but man, if I were you

I’d heed this little speech.

Bid that city life adieu.

Salvation’s within reach.

Might take a crazy stunt.

That web we weave is strong

but it’s always time to punt

when it’s fourth and long.

We can’t always hit a homer

or lay down the perfect bunt

but every beachcomber

relishes the hunt

for his favorite secret herbs

to flavor beans and rice.

I say, “Screw the suburbs.

Be a bum in paradise”.