Deaf, blind granite block content to graze with familiar stock.
A local lard not and english black, we don't venture into the fog.
Homeward bound and gagged not twenty steps from the door.
Dispensable as cooks at sea or journalists send to war.
No one found me spellbinding, no one offered me a drink.
But by crippled hands at the potters wheel, i was given shape and insects appeal.
Sent to work the graveyard shift at the heavens jdc.
A legend to the peasants there, but lights had caught me unaware.
I've wandered into your graces, so how do i get out?
Its been quiet for too long, but pompous phrases and alarms can't help you now.
And every pervert outside of every fence has had his fill of your kids.
He's cloking out.
Such indecisive crusaders.
A Martyr made into a scenic blur.
A lookout into a left behind.
What wounded pride.
No one finds me spellbinding.
No ones buying me a drink.
I've been to the lions.
Left high and dry by the 8th Circle of Hell.
Where are the spoils?
I want the ticker tape parade.
Damn these filthy rats.
Autor(es): Keith Buckley