The Honest Prose of a Drunk

Music being ripped from the air.

They want quick diamonds from word vomit.

Let the role of the new be forgotten,

And the Rhapsody of an age be revived.

Recall the smooth words spoken from the past.

The ache, the beauty, the struggle

Of a man calling his mother

To tell her that her baby’s a killer.

Let me tell you a tale

Where the hero does fail,

And God is a fish in a bowl,

But you’ll still sell him a piece of your soul.

Release the dogs of war in the form of verse.

It will never get better if it don’t get worse.

So let the blade of notes sing.

Heads will roll so long live the fake kings.