The steady strumming of steel strings,
Staccato strikes like some salacious swaying streetwalker,
Sorrow-ly sauntering through ****-slung streets.
Smelling of saffron in these places of salvia stinking slums.

Scythe swinging,
Pendulum-slow,
Cycling through souls,
Sickle of Sadness,
Strewn through both Sinners and Saints.

Sights of Scratches seduction,
Satan's satisfaction in slayings of soldiers and civilians,
Simply sumptuous.

Suckered by Senators,
Sold out by simpering, salivating slugs,
Presiding over slaughters with sadistic swagger.
Slovenly suckling upon skulls of the slain...

Sardonically

When I come back,
What do you figure will I be?
Will I come back at all?

Will I have accumulated the good-boy points to heaven?
Or will I be sent down to hang with Cobain, Jung, and Morrison?

Could I be sent back as a watch?
A Rifle?
A Brick?
I think I wouldn't mind coming back as a bird,
As long as it was somewhere warm.

Upon final judgement,
Will my heart be weighed against a feather,
And if so,
Will the scales tip at all?

Would I be reunited with old friends,
Old pets,
Old family?
If so,
Will I have to search them out?

Could I perhaps,
Be taken upon the back of a winged horse,
Sat at a great hall?
To drink and fight,
Until the final day where the fighting will be no more?

Whatever waits around that final bend in the river,
I hope that it is still many, many bends away.