The more i while away your loss
The less I get my point across
Depending on whose point of view
The side of my brain
You choose to listen too
Nothing new here
I have not reinvented the wheel
I would not be granted a fresh appeal
The evidence has not changed
I was not framed
I have simply exhausted my claim
The Pet Shop Boy's are still at No 1
And I am still a Bum
Who stinks of soaked depressed Rum
For failure to overcome
The poignant fact of skipping lessons
I am what is to a fence
That barbed wire's scare
When Mother's care
Left trolls to hang out to dry
On the totempoles
Like crucifixes
So that other's
Fear to tread
Because nothing ever good comes from
Feeling sorry for
Or acting out
What life has taken from
Rather choose to rise above
Or take the high road
Because nothing ever good comes from
Looking back even when the light is ahead
For Love is a better bed
To place a weary head upon
When all is said
And all is done
Goodbye
Godless
Son
With that awesome aura
of competence about her,
against her cool confidence,
he'll have to walk on water;
her lethal, legal logic makes
his best arguments leak,
and now he's thrusting his whole arm
in the dike, so to speak,
with water spraying all around him,
he just wants to cry,
but he's got no one as a scapegoat
to hang out to dry.
Her expertise kicks up in him
a dust-storm of mute wrath,
like dull anger throbbing
as murderous thoughts' aftermath;
his pique hisses low, wanting
to roar as fiery fury,
but he must control his blaze
to forestall self-injury;
he must feign congeniality
and endure all of these
and swallow what's left of his pride,
pleading, "Your Honor, please."
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