we’re running low on drinks
this party’s hit the doldrums
and as the morning sinks
we godless frozen forms
pitch headlong into ashtrays
and empty bottles counted
then recycled in the telling
like the evidence that’s mounted
in the stories you’ve been selling
so paint me black in tales of woe
and fabricate the reason
to justify the fatal blow
and your final act of treason
.
No comments:
Post a Comment