Lit a match
And what did my eyes see?
A fertile blue sky birthing grey,
Swings twisting rusted chains,
Thought I knew my part in the play
Now as I draw the curtain, I’m whispering
MACBETH!
MACBETH!
When the thing you need
Becomes your enemy
The fatal shot can come from anything
Sick of fighting for spoils I’ve supposedly won
Of proving myself after the medals mine
My fifteen minutes of fame
Will be me trying to clear my name
THEN I‘LL BE GONE!
LONG FUCKING GONE!
When the thing you need
Becomes weary
The fatal shot can come from anything
Everything’s fine
until I start remembering
Everything’s fine
Because I am pretending
Everything’s fine…
Idle hands might be the devils work
but his masterpiece is the mind.
Lit a match
And what did my eyes see?
A dead canary.
No comments:
Post a Comment