Fresh air has been giving me the bends
Home-sick for the deep end of polluted seas
Where I would put cigarettes out on my tongue
Then lick the prom queen in places she felt uncomfortable
God knows I'm too poor for the courtship
We all end up in the whale's stomach anyway
And you can't pay your way out of that
I personally always used a hatchet or two
A little dull from the blood of part-time friends
But it always did the job and left me with plenty of food
Gnawing on guts in candlelight with another serial killer
They always think this will be the night I fall to them
When I cut myself up worse than they ever could
Chunks of me buried in isolated specks of time
With a small tombstone quoting a sentimental song on each one
Any search hound will run terrified of the smell
It resembles rigor mortis under gallons of rain
Or a horde of zombies frolicking in a garden
Where everything goes to die except for emotion
That fucker will live despite holocaust, meteorites, and bombs
Lingering like the ghost of a cheated and diseased lover
No comments:
Post a Comment