DRIVEWAY CRUMBS

Alright folks, polish your helmets, we’re goin’ to the moon again,
Like cosmic raccoons rummagin’ through the universe’s technicolor dumpster.
We already dragged home a bucket of gray driveway crumbs,
Didn’t answer a single question except “wow, reality tastes like chalk.”
But the brain squad’s back on the hamster wheel,
Spinnin’ so fast they’re generating their own weather systems.

They stack those moon pebbles in glass boxes,
Little geological action figures nobody plays with.
Sunday crowd shuffles by, pupils dilated,
Seeing the rocks glow colors that aren’t in the human vocabulary,
Then wanders off for nachos because enlightenment is exhausting
And the nacho cheese is whispering their name.

Oh yes indeed, we’re goin’ to that moon again for more rocks,-it aint even green cheese man...
’Cause maybe this batch’ll finally talk.
Maybe the dust’ll hum a tune
Explaining why we feel déjà vu in places we’ve never been.
Spend a trillion bucks on a cosmic pebble
And a Polaroid of a bootprint shaped like a melting teardrop.
But hey—we keep wobblin’ forward
On this blue marble of questionable decisions,
Brains overheating like a lava lamp left on since 1974.

Moon again for more rocks,
Moon again for more rocks,
Moon again for more rocks,
Somebody stop us before we mortgage the sun.

We cram our best guesses in philosophy books,
Ship ’em to libraries where they nap peacefully under fluorescent halos.
Meanwhile everybody’s hunched over glowing rectangles,
Reading headlines that rearrange themselves
Every time you blink too slowly.

Up there they’ll poke another crater,
Bag up a dream that looks like aquarium gravel
But smells faintly of nostalgia.
While I’m down here in my socks,
Scrolling old messages like an archaeologist
Digging through the ruins of my own brain.
Every ding is a tiny cosmic gong.

Yep, we’re goin’ back to the moon for more rocks,
’Cause maybe this batch unlocks
The cosmic user manual we definitely misplaced
Somewhere between birth and taxes.
Moon dust in a sandwich bag,
A zillion dollars for a souvenir
And a blurry astronaut doing jazz hands
While the horizon ripples like warm vinyl.
Tryin’ to pitch our existence
To a cold gray landlord who charges rent in silence.

Moon again for more rocks,
Shoo‑bop, shoo‑bop, lunar gravel in a cup.
Moon again for more rocks,
Somebody tell NASA to sit down and hydrate.

It ain’t about the stones at all
 not about them stones… noooo...
It ain’t about the scraps at all
not about them scraps… noooo
It’s proof we can climb ridiculously high
Just to scream “ARE WE DOING THIS RIGHT” into the void
And hear the void answer back
In a voice that sounds suspiciously like your uncle.

’Cause deep down we’re terrified
That if we stop askin’ questions
We’ll have to admit we’re wingin’ it
On a planet that hums in the key of E-flat.

Ladies and gentlemen, gather round the existential buffet.
Tonight’s special is confusion flambé,
Served with a side of taxpayer gravy
And a garnish of cosmic static.
Look, it’s not the rocks, it’s not the science,
It’s the thrill of spendin’ money we don’t have
On things we don’t understand
To impress a universe that isn’t even watchin’.
And somewhere in Mission Control, someone yells
“Stones are back on the menu, boys!”
Like we’re runnin’ a barbecue joint on the Sea of Tranquility
And the ribs are made of shimmering igneous hallucinations.

Picture a guitar melting into a puddle of chrome noodles.
Picture a saxophone arguing with a blender
About the meaning of time.
Picture a drum kit made of old microwaves
And one guy in the back hitting a traffic cone
That echoes like a cathedral.
That’s the sound of progress, baby.
That’s the sound of humanity reaching for the stars
And grabbing a handful of gravel
That rearranges itself when you’re not looking.

Oh lordy, strap in—we’re goin’ to that moon again for more rocks,
’Cause apparently that’s our emotional support hobby.
Chasin’ meaning in a crater
Till the countdown yells “GO HOME.”
Moon again for more rocks,
Laughin’ as we torch another launchpad
Like toddlers with a billion‑dollar flamethrower.
Tiny confused apes with oversized brains
Shoutin’ at the cosmos, “C’mon, hit us with somethin’ real!”

Moon again for more rocks,
Moon again for more rocks,
Moon again for more rocks,
Is this enlightenment or just retail therapy?

And so, dear listeners, we return to our regularly scheduled planet,
Where the rent is high, the Wi‑Fi is low,
And the rocks—
well, the rocks are right here under our feet.
But they ain’t moon rocks,
So apparently they dont count...