Southsea Hants

The smell of cigarettes is as thick
As a thousand fools dancing on a cliff
The balladeers describe the heat
While air-brushed artists rape the meat

They all drift along
With sculptures in their songs
They all lay blame to excuses
When the sculptures slip and fall

The audacity that you'd even be speaking to me cannot be
Comprehended in these words
To get my point across I'd have to twist,contort, and fuss
In colors you can't begin to see

We all drift along
No borders or canon to believe
In silent relief
We thank god for not existing

Regurgitate my stolen goods
I'll show you what's been hiding underneath this hood
Blasting blessed archetypes
Through bladed soundscapes hidden in the words

We all learn to spawn
So the next batch can ingest
Reaching out, glove in hand
Under the shell in distress