We are dying. Lies make us. I die trying, fly high trying. Great geese overhead in winter; fly to where? I can’t care, but know they go there, through air. Don’t shit on my hair. I’m stuck. Luck I earned, karma stashed from previous lives, love I got drunk on, and burned. Collide. I scope a crash for colours. Rainbow wrecks and twisted rigid bones. Amen to the jigsaw in my brain, wipe shrapnel, go home. Here I am, babbling to the only person I love on ten thousand telephones. I write love letters, sweetest she ever received. Envelope lick drop-in box delivers unfading memories and etchings you can believe. But these days - nobody can digest a megabite, or trace autumn leaves - that just ain't how folks get paid - and whistling? Disappears into the breeze. Stuff a sock down my pants and call it country. I sang bluegrass in her kitchen and cracked like humpty dumpty. Governments and the afterlife - we get what we deserve. Will I bomb you, Osama? What will calm you. The drama. donkey King Kong Bush still swatting at the consequence of that aerial ambush. [bridge]They made a war. Outlet for fate. Pent-up nihilism needs its place. Explode yourself on a bus. your self-destruction doesn't wipe the smile from my face. Relax. There’s a reason why people procreate. Or if you’re that desperate for affection - ask your sister on a date. Mass graves. Grave masses. Crusade Christians. Help the homeless and don’t throw stones. I can move anywhere, but live what I choose – wherever they got eyeballs; wherever they got the jigsaw blues. [brief instrumental] ooooh Mass graves. Grave masses. Crusade Christians. Help the homeless and don’t throw stones. I can move anywhere, but live what I choose – wherever they got eyeballs; wherever they got the jigsaw blues.
