Throwaway #8

This song won't make it,
it's high time somebody takes it.
Clean it and drape it
with a bow, then over bake it.
Into the Saturday,
drive it to Half Moon Bay,
leave it to float away,
and salvage half a day.
This song won't make it,

it's ok.

And then one morning,
when another song is forming,
without a warning
you'll hear other voices storming,
calling and squirming,
as if returning
from an old yearning
at the bay