I’ve got a pocketful of change
And I use some everyday
To ward off all the strange
Habits in my way

In dark corners of the past
And on roads that lie ahead
There are turns I took too fast
And turns whose roads are dead

I hear a river in the distance
I seek its currents and its flow
But these patterns of resistance
Keep me wedded down below

I’ve got a pocketful of notes
Some I’ve written, some I’ve not
Some are short, some misquotes
Some meander, some are rot

Yet the horizon never wavers
I hear its beck, I hear its call
The sirens that I favor
Would redeem my ancient fall