Mohawk, New York by Matthew Milia

Standing 'neath the harbor house
The stars are dripping
Your mind, oh your blouse
Are darkening cannery

I’m a psychedelic on the railroad red Erie Canal
The serrated town of Mohawk
Those engines are my only pal
They’re made of tin, they fall right in
But they do know

And that is why I say
“Darling, I had not even
Seen your eyes, but now I know
They are charcoal, they’re not brown
The sounds are lustful, I should know”

Standing 'neath the harbor house
Your mind is melting on
A doo-wop singing barbershop-fop
Melting now is all you

They mean nothing, oh, they mean nothing at all