as the sun falls on another dusty, mould soaked house
you sink back down into your torn arm chair
and smile to the bottom of your glass,
bottoms up
With the faint smell of death rolling under the front door
you light up another smoke
only 1 and half packs left for the day til you're done.
with that smile still there you smooth back greasy hair
nothing but a tree scratching at the crooked window pane
refelect on your day, sweetheart, I saw it all, i know your thoughts
but you do honestly think handing out false compliments
will make you that little bit better?
will "your hair is stunning" to the balding old woman
erase every single one of your scars?
of course, were he still alive, he'd say pathetic scars.
battle wounds you call them,
battle wounds from a war he said you started
upper left arm, theres a cigar burn scar
you say, "pa, did this, filthy ****"
he meant the world to you, he abused you
but i know your thoughts, you loved him
right arm broken at age 6, it never healed real well
right hand shattered at 3, you were lucky that time
he'd chase you around the house, i know.
you paid your dues, the world was ready to give you it all
but you knew nothing more
than Bottoms up
and passing out on dusty floors.