Thirsty Seven, 37
I have a chest of smoke and a heart of ashes;
I have a breath that chocks and liver that burns;
I have rolls of brown paper and an ashtray of choices
These lungs are a hearth of nine hundred and eight cigarettes
And now I have burnt out all my dreams.
I have guts that fear and a mouth of lies,
This tongue is a needle, living in a scabbard of flesh and bone.
I have a palm of earth and eyes that hopes but
This life is a winter of fates and other things I cannot change.
My feet are bleeding ballpoints
But I keep walking in circles
and now this story has lost its plot.
I have sockets of remorse and a pocket of a thousand nails
A thousand nails to mend my broken big old pride.
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