Deaf, blind granite block content to graze with familiar stock. A local
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lard not an english black, we don't venture into the fog. Homeward bound and
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gagged not twenty steps from the door. Dispensable as cooks at sea or
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journalists sent to war. No one found me spellbinding, no one offered me a
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drink. But by crippled hands at the potters wheel, I was given shape and
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insects appeal. Sent to work the graveryard shift at heaven's JDC. A legend to
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the peasants there, but lights had caught me unaware. I've wandered into your
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graces, so how do I get out? It's been quiet for too long, but pompous phrases
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and alarms can't help you now. And every pervert outside of every fence has had
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his fill of your kids. He's clocking out. Such indecisive crusaders. A martyr
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made into a scenic blur. A lookout into a left behind. What wounded pride. No
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one finds me spellbinding. No ones buying me a drink. I've been to the lions.
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Left high and dry by the 8th circle of hell. Where are the spoils? I want the
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ticker tape parade. Damn these filthy rats.
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Grudge Music
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| Every Time I Die |
