| Lately as I ulcer in a new heir of unaccountable, | |
| son, I've begun to repent you expecting anything of me. | |
| I've no pretty pills for you, blow no high holy horns for this. | |
| Should the radiation crumple us, hush in our disintegrating bed. | |
| If I soldier up and church it out, railing straight and comfortable in a crowd- | |
| what difference would it make? If I'm here or wrong? | |
| The lights are on and everyone is gone. | |
| Should I die like a dog on the gallows, dear, | |
| sing a song unto my ear and make my fear be gone. | |
| Oh, don't render me sticky yet- | |
| let me be stored in a cool, dry place. | |
| Here lies a shook one, deserting an army of none. | |
| Was I awake when the shit went down? | |
| Did I have enough in my account to skip town? | |
| Did they set fire to the home that I lived in? | |
| Did they feed me to my next of kin? | |
| Was the media there? Did they handcuff me and throw me to the ground? | |
| Did they read me my rights all wrong? | |
| Did they read me my rights out loud? |
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