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Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough, they'll never stop their running Gunning for their brothers This house is a hostel, it is peaceful, but it's always emptying Boys all want to be someone Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar Feeding the facts to false fires Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire (But I'll score your string ensemble) I saw my son at seventeen, the shudders made projections on his naked frame But now at twenty-five, he simply cannot stay away from the ketamine With make-up on his sores, he spends an hour a day composing his own eulogy Sometimes he sends me letters, but they're mostly garbled phrases and apologies Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar Feeding the facts to false fires Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire (Append a Bulgarian children's choir) |