|
Waste of a face never yours for the keeping |
|
Slapped across your head |
|
Then with what little time remained |
|
set out to forget it |
|
Yonder would break days plump with thunder |
|
of new and glorious morn |
|
Hours would spill |
|
souring still |
|
despite our adornments for them |
|
all in good time |
|
you break before the light |
|
so soaked in wine |
|
it dries your will to fight |
|
but everyday is never enough |
|
sucks tucked in the folds of your guts |
|
contents of which blaze in your eyes |
|
Jesus, I'm drunk on this spirit tonight |
|
---- |
|
If only the good ones die young |
|
I'd pray your corruption would |
|
swift like a thief in the night |
|
Right I pluck my right eye right out |
|
---- |
|
Yanked from your slumber |
|
What ominous portent |
|
dangles in your face? |
|
Rife with sprites falling on knives |
|
crowd into your gaze |
|
well sight is a sense and in your defense |
|
one I might liken to... |
|
the manner in which you touch what you clutch |
|
and the that the wind touches you |
|
---- |
|
If only the good ones die young |
|
I'd pray your corruption would |
|
swift like a thief in the night |
|
Right I pluck my right eye right out |
|
If only the young ones die good |
|
I'd pray your corruption would |
|
slip like a slit in the wrist |
|
hack the hands, redeem the rest |
