Good Enough

We're on our way to a better personal dream
But it's never gonna seem like we thought it would.

And it's all right, because our babies are all made of
wooden people growing up like sailors on the moon.

I kissed her body, but her body turned into a
Bloomingdale's receipt made of plastic people
eating all their babies, with no one left in the world
to kiss their eyes out of their minds; they're going
to sleep inside my tiny personal dreamscape
with a kind of little kind person floating under
the aquamarine, bluish green.

And things are seeming more like they want to be
a personal slave to the kind God, who freed our people
with never thinking that we are never good enough.