Wax Chanting
Rooting for gems in the devil's left hand
trapped in a flesh cage, there's no escaping
each etching upon the face telling tales of greed
tossing aside family-making love to dead "things"
greed is a fanged drug with no hope for antidote
say for a rope to the nape or a bullet to the soul
old man sits on a throne made from bones of regret
pinching out the last candle without family or friend
wax dripping over a hollowed-out heart, chanting...
oh
what could have been
oh
what could have been.
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