Strum the strings of stupid scent.
Kiss the callused hand of God.
Feel the light which will be bent.
You useless old miserable scummy sod.
Touch the trembling torrent of love.
As nothing touches you no more.
Fly to the shallow waters above.
And rest where you belong;
With the pale and putrid poor.
Bite the blessed burning cake.
And feel the fire upon your tongue.
For your love is as still as a lake.
And your own song has already been sung.
Go to the grave with your pointless life.
Bury it deep under the frozen ice.
So don't forget to pick up your knife.
And cut me a bit of you,
Something nice.
No comments:
Post a Comment