Pigeons in the Parking Lot

There's little to say
There's always little to say
Things aren't what you expect

It's never a pot of gold,
or ten good turns,
or anything. Not anything

No gusts of perfect wind
No moonlight walks
Forget it. Keep dreaming

This isn't a lie
This is the truth
There's just nothing to say

It's only the usual
in heavy doses
If that's bad, well, too bad

It's nothing
The same thing, right there
See it, and know it, for sure

A junk of a car,
a supermarket dying,
and pigeons in the parking lot

That's all
Maybe almost invisible
But either way, it doesn't matter