blood widow wind
And so it goes
with rotgut clothes
and fingers spread out on the floor
Tokyo's dead
and the priesthood has said
there's a blood widow wind at the door
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And so it goes
with rotgut clothes
and fingers spread out on the floor
Tokyo's dead
and the priesthood has said
there's a blood widow wind at the door
dark metal hands crank out cantankerous applause
basked in engine oil and chain smoke
this town feels like a mudpuddle being stomped in
by an obnoxious child on a sugar high
dumb men living hard lives,
propped up by dim, bruised women
suckling dumb, bruised children
If it were summer I'd envy them like early Sam Clemens
I'd sings songs like Bob Dylan
get hard over simple living
but I ain't seen the sun in twelve days
and all I can think about
stuck in this traffic jam
is how they're all mindless, shitting pigs
I mean that in the nicest possible way
He's a rattled slat sycophant
a stumbling, bumbling deviant
a double chinned greasy wheeled money man
selling guns to tots for gold
His brothers and sisters are obstacles
commoditized hot-heated Popsicles
Just like mud-puddles under his chariot
or cotton pills plucked from his clothes
He worships a mass market fealty
a contrived message plastic reality
Where inadequate sheeple all scurry for parts
in a play that he trademarked last June
We could wish for his death, or epiphany
But his sons carry on his cacophony
On this mangled American highway
That we ride on together alone