Saturday, November 19, 2005

cut me a slice of that old 65

you died in my my arms in a dream i once had
and i'm truly ashamed to call you dad
but the bruises on my face all wear you signature
with a belly like steel and a soul to match you stumbled off with out a scratch and i think i did the hurtin and the hatin for the both of us

this tender spot above my eye brings me back to time when you should have died but i put down the knife and picked up a pen instead
raped and pillaged, strung along
a feral child that can't belong
abandoned in his youth to follow none

now my problems you say are all my own
as i try to refurbish this broken home
with dirty finger nails and broken teeth to remind me
a phone call in the heat of drink can really stop and make you think of the child you tortured and turned a blind eye to

well i'm glad as hell that your ashamed
a deadbeat crushed in his own game your dead to me and that still gives me hope
so i found him lying on the street 60 years old in a handy -capped seat
a bitter old tired shell of a never was
with a few spiteful words i was on my way and you were left to desintigrate and the only legend you left was a tale of a fool
so from time to time when i cross this stool with a bottle of red and a puddle of drool i think of you and smile that you have gone

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