You think fiery red and the brimstone
Hand chopping down like a scythe
Lopping towns off and on like dropping phones
Glands pulsing doom paying tithe
Is gonna bring me safely into your fold?
Who told you you could be here?
Who told you you belonged?
Shut up and drink your tea
This time it is you it isn't me
And I'm not budging til you patch
That hole in the dirty thatch
Of sky that traps us down here
In the mire.
Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!
I don't care if this theater's crowded
I'll get rowdy if I'm doubted
Out of sight and out of tree
I've left myself.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.