Hours in the meter. - joneworlds@mailbox.org Pack up our nets too soggy to set and I'll give you a ride for your final mile, and listen a while to your rivers defiled in search of the last place to park. Oh, it's my way, I cannot escape putting hours in the meter 'til it's getting late. This ain't no day to remember, it ends like a springtime in late November, and now it is time to go home. The tension it mounts as the crows start to count, the lines all held down by their strangling friends and the room starts to bend to the words that they send while cars driving by are laughing at us.