|
|
 |
|
Exit, no exit |
|
written
by joelnish / 10.09.2005 |
|
|
| |
Assignment |
| |
Bones. Bones. Bones.
Bones. Bones. Bones.
What can we do with all these bones? Stack em? Bury em? Burn em? Grind them into bread?
Money. Money. Money.
Money. Money. Money.
What can we do with all this money? Spend it? Waste it? Covet it? Light our cigars with it?
Steps. Steps. Steps.
Steps. Steps. Steps.
They just fucking steps.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Boney Chandelier,
We both weep but you find more hope.
Does this give you peace?
You’re over the hill,
Hard Rock stays, Prada left
Just a street soon enough
Wading through tourists,
I walk up and then walk down,
One more off the list.
I gawk at all these,
More at bones than cars or steps
But only one moves me.
My death is certain,
Should I choose to stare at it?
Or slowly drive a Porsche?
I’m only two bones short.
What, Father Francis has died.
Ah sweet sweet femurs.
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
|
|
