Coffins are Liars

My chameleon skin today was white washed

On the schedule it says:

          Rolled in the dirt on the morrow

          Tuesday last I was a snake

          Tuesday next I shall be a dragonfly

           And then a strumpet

           Selling holes for the filling I can't wait

They douse me in lye that burns when your wet

They want to turn my body into soap

They feel that I've run my course without laps

Enough times... (I don't think anybody really counted)

Still, they know when it's done

They were prayed for under some sun (so they said)

Blessed with a kind of forgiveness (so they say)

So I listen to them (so I say)

And allow them to digest my tissues (so I say so be it)

Leeching lies out of burnt ashes

Much like lye is taken from potashes

The burnt have no right to b***h

No matter how righteous, rich, or saintly

No rights to further catch and pitch

The dead can only lie

In a meat bag chilling and screaming - 'no life inside'

That all miracles inside here, have now died

We can never know the truth of those lies

Until you're lying yourself

Screaming 'no life instead!!'

The miracle of me now is dead

Sadly enough

Not a single chameleon ever figured out how to mingle with the dead

And ask questions for answers

If it's we who really lie? and they who truly laugh?

Waiting for more of us to come

And join their sick f*****g fun

Pointing and laughing

Their mocking's of living

Still, we decorate their bodies

Douse it in paint and pump it full with chemical

So even in death

We must remain under mask

Like a game

Or a play

Where maybe not even death can break character

This was my spectacle of living socially

A production like task

Pretending... it's sorta fun