On a Friday I sit in the room In my head there's a tune and I feel defeated By the speed machine And the social scene I keep on waiting for something to happen I am slow And it's high time I am slowed down To feel the cost of all my movement Next to the stoop There's a ring of grass Where nothing else will grow It's a precious thing Finding life in the dead zone People are always walking Across the tracks behind our building There's always the feeling That so much is happening That's enough Stop and stare Long enough Into the glare Cut it out Don't fill it up