I'm not who with my eyes from stage I claim to be
I've only cradled death in my own ending flesh
From far off in abstracted lit
Candle wick flickering
And when a thing starts finishing around me
I faint or fake a mustache, an accent or flee
In fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity
Fact:
The poser in the bowler gets shot first
Thinks he's the shit 'cause he can spit and curse
Acting brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts
Scowling
And shouting
"Shall we dance?"
Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom am I failing or worse?
Mom am I failing?
What should these earnest hands be holding?
Still sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers
I wanna operate from a base of hunger
No longer be ashamed and hide my
Tears in shower water while I
Lather for pleasure
I wanna speak at an intimate decibel
With the precision of an infinite decimal
To listen up and send back a true echo
Of something forever felt but never heard
I want that sharpened steel of truth in every word
The small fry in the bow tie dies first
Acting wild like the spirit of God movin' after church
Fakin' he's hard like packed-down dirt
Already
And yelling
"Be my guest!"
Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom am I failing or worse?
Mom am I failing?
What should these earnest hands be holding?
Should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse?
Mom am I failing or worse?
Mom am I failing?
What should these earnest hands be holding?