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 don’t 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.