The suburban housewives are all prostitutes Cuckoo CUCKOO cuckoo Sings the cuckolded husband
Bury the demons in the backyard Jack Decomposing rotting souls Enriching the soil Get rich without any toil. Step outside
A glance to the heavens From the floors of our forest Reveals many a distant star Symbolizing neither near or far This twinkling image destroys the ego Although in this here woodland Anything goes We are the kings of our times, the last of our kings, and the future creators.
The truth only goes as far as the rocks thrown So I asked the reapers which way to go. Take a trip with me down memory lane. My past has no real pain HUmph - no thank you I would not like any fame I really have nothing to gain but catharsis So please donβt call me an artist. Please call me the man who could not deal with beauty and treachery of life so he wrote after lusting for natures delights.