So wound up you're fit to burst First you try to to break the glass Alas can't damage the seal Feel a fool, take a tumble A fumble fit for a clown Drown your sorrows, drink your fill Instill a sense of release Fleece them for round after round Emit not another sound
Spread the news, it's official The Patron Saint of Something Is coming to my rescue
She can afford to spend time away from her cloud on high and that ever ticking clock She observes this Holy day and achieves a state of grace with a certain measure of let's call it 'humility' The perfect host welcomes me as my race is almost run
Only a single item appears on your bucket list An inky scrap of paper says 'Never capitulate; condemn, or be condemned to a life of abject ennui that continues without end' You want to smell fresh air, but you can't generate enough power to channel your thoughts or render them capable of processing common sense
We resolve, review, design, shine, sing songs from nine to five. A New Year... Resolution; revolution three six five. The Earth's turn, dedicated, dated year two oh one five. A Mayfly-brief win dealt; a form of shelter... Gimme five!
Couldn't help yourself, could you? In the panic that ensued you and a thousand others who thought they had room to talk discovered there was no choice Couldn't believe our own eyes... As heat became more like burn they shed not a drop of sweat always believing he would perform a miracle, man and, boy, did it get them high when she said the snag was fixed
You point the finger of blame And it's no strain to sustain Your deranged haze of hatred Feign regret through the filet To the cape clad clergyman A traipse through your secret cave In exchange for his silence
Those bent on self-destruction tend not to avert their gaze; ready, willing and able to face the gathering storm in all its mighty splendor. That death rattle awaits them. Their last breath reaps a cool breeze; the hardest harvest of all. Their secular cremation, Requiem Mass in plain clothes. Skin and bones... reduced to dust... Their remains...? Scattered ashes.
Resolute; your policy of honesty spills its guts across a forgotten stretch of a neglected landscape that still bears the stains of guilt stirred by cloudy memories of miserable children awaiting the decision as death's vortex pirouettes perhaps just moments away.
JUST GOOD Tempted by her subtle hints... ...since saving her sorry soul stole his fresh set of morals.
Quarrels and a mix of lies rise up like a toasty flame; shame adds to lingering guilt. Tilt that balance till he yields, shields down. But sex between friends tends to leave a bitter taste, laced with scorn, on his palate.
Strange how they tend to revolve (those apocalyptic tomes) in literary circles Thirteen unpublished novels weak insipid frivolous from preface to epilogue seek speedy intervention Suddenly out of the blue the first promising inklings (audible to an extent) that their roots are taking hold breaking old gnarled attitudes like poppies after the war