Mohawk, New York by Matthew Milia

Standing 'neath the harbor house
The stars are dripping down
Your mind
Oh, your blouse
Are darkening Cannery Town

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 me
A doo-wop singing barbershop-fop
Melting now is all you see

They mean nothing, oh, they mean nothing at all