I am only shame without a number,
no parlour to your tricks & greed.
I hold within something that slumbers
and when i'm awake it tortures me.
This feast of heathenestic ideals
no room for sense unless it bleeds.
I am the fear of no tomorrow
and of no sleep until next week.
A place for counting all the numbers
add them up to feed the sheep.
Maybe Jim will go home early
or maybe Jak will sleep alone
Maybe all the things we think we know
we really,
truly
don't.