The troubles with Harry's

Midnight, you said, what's midnight to the young?
A festive blaze was flung across five cedar trunks
And a patrol car showed on the road

Maybe she lost her way, trying to cross the lake
Where winter skaters glide from X to Y
But we know, she took her poor young life

My year is an army of twelve monkeys, fed with sixty slices of Harry's
No more can I swallow them and still March with no pain

I think, she said, I'll get off here and walk ahead
She peered at ghostly trees grateful to hear the brakes
Bus stopped, bus disappeared

The troubles with Harry's they're multiplying and threaten Ambers of a toaster attack
No more can I simply wait for March to vacuum them

My year is an army of twelve monkeys, fed with sixty slices of Harry's
No more can I swallow them and still March with no pain

Bus stopped, bus disappeared
Marchary? That sounds Mexican