and going away because you'd come to a stop
... and then while you sat there becoming a stone,
you felt it - time was flowing over your hand . . .
You can take it from me, my friend: getting mad
is what will keep the sad songs out of your dick
- and your dick out of your hand . . .
Maybe our old guy was one mean s.o.b.
- who ever said that
we
were any bargain?–
and had nothing to give but his holding back.
But what good was everything we'd done for him if
we couldn't throw it in his teeth and hear him squawk,
"What in the hell ever made you think I'd pay up?
You did it-it's yours. Now live with it. Or don't."
So, what's it all come to anyway?
We saved his ass. He died in bed.
Or he got out of bed a thousand times more
and then one morning didn't. Just didn't.
And now no hand is left that's fit to lay
the "living laurel on their faithful brows."
Me? I'm re-upping in the second campaign,
marching away to those kids in the old outback,
where we're dangerous still . . .
Tell them our day will come,
the clarion's voice rinsing out the whole wide sky,
the wind stepping into the banners, and all the rest.
Till then they don't have to worry.
And if that's never, then fuck it, it's never.
ENTRANCES
megatherium
Jack Maximum
mixmaster?
mincemonster
