This is when the Sidewalk will end;
where, if you walk the walk, you’ll break, not mend.
This is the date that you’ll tell your friends
is the day that the Sidewalk ends.

These are the times that you thought wouldn’t be:
with the doors unlatched; and all CDs free
and to see some AF, you must get on a G,
to a club that’ll still book your friends

’cause at this point when the future’s unknown
‘cept for prophets’ words in their random poems
all that is clear is that some bird has flown
and we’re here where the Sidewalk ends

and that’s alright mama, ’cause everything dies
and if it all stayed the same, that’d be the surprise.
It’s the time of the season, that’s where the truth lies.
And if it don’t break us, we’ll bend.

And maybe these words can bring comfort this time
as we travel through uncertain querulous climes
and if you don’t like the fare? I’ll refund your dime
to the place where the Sidewalk will end.