I am sure they speak in tongues stolen from distant planets when they tell me bones of clay possess a desire that burns from wild beginnings of sleep and dream of Super Powers through to the end of the night
Rustling monkeys will always keep you sweet At least in the dry eyes of our skipper He says it's blasphemy to shed a tear For the sake of those plague ridden animals Whose whole reason for being born Is to swab the deck he commands
Bee sting cheese string images Cattle drive club sandwiches Trample grapes and knead that dough Wind me up and watch me go Make excuses loud and proud Plant the seed and join the crowd Watch their minds begin to slip That's the best part of the trip
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.