I've owned a host of curios
And trinkets in my day
Acumulated gadgets
And devices in array
But one singular item
Has remained a loyal friend
I'm positive I'll have it
Til the very bitter end

I've nothing in my pocket
I've had it from the start
And though I try to run from it
We're never far apart
When everything goes rotten
If life leaves me bereft
I always have my nothing
My friend when nothing's left

At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room
Where the cockroaches eat what the rats don’t consume
There’s a table enveloped in paper and grime
On a carpet now lost to a happier time
With a cast iron typewriter, rusted with age
In the gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

And under a lampshade of nicotine brown
Sits a comical legend of zero renown
How he plugs at the keys of his rattling beast
The years of persistence have left him decreased
Now he’s stuck in the shade of his hovering doom
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room

His words are for others and too, the applause
Though a standing ovation might cause him to pause
He hasn’t the courage to speak them aloud
For he’s lacking the bottle and shy of a crowd
So he captures the laughter in lines on his page
In a gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

We wrap the fermenter in a blanket
And tuck it into bed
We watch as fermented dreams
Float through his little head
Then we siphon into still,
Careful not to spill
And raise our glasses to the sky

We drink the chemicals
That the fermenter does yield
And with each passing sip
Our fates are sealed

We drink
We drink although we have been told
That the plum tree
Which grows too much fruit
Is fated only to fold

We drink
We drink because we know
That the honorable hunter
Does not **** with his bow

We drink
And drink until we can see
A future in which
We are free

Free to live the lives
That we wish to pursue
Free to sleep through the night
And free to brew

When I was a child, on Grafton Street,
My brother and I used to pop bubbles.
We also built great cities and bases,
Arenas of Jenga, where soldiers did battle.

These creations were places of retreat
To escape from childhood pain and troubles.
Now we wear our masks instead of our faces
And herd ourselves onto trains like cattle.

It's hard to pinpoint when the dream truly dies -
The suicide rates will not be televised,
But be assured that your job is distracting
You from your lack of power, hope, and truth.

We live in our own little bubbles of lies,
And now know that life's not as advertised.
You might think that I'm overreacting
Until you have lost all sight of your youth

And all that is left are dogs chasing bones -
Are we anything more than just monkeys with phones
Searching for comfort and love in our loneliness?

The sea is still today
It's cerulean blue and gold
I think of the thoughts it carries
Within its hidden folds.
Its touch is soft and gentle
It soothes the ache of years
But I wonder how many waves
Are made from fallen tears.

I'm drunk on your lips
Addicted to your passion
Hopelessly wasted