little people
small people
people full of scars

riddle me people
why the feeble mind ?

why bother time
with your reaper's heart ?

cry with me,
when I read you your tar,

filthy hands, guilty stars
many men, any man-
but yet i see no flowers

nobody's awake at this hour

and i've slowly spent all my
will to live,
i repent the kind man who
sought this thrill to give,

frozen smile, stuck by the clock;
locked in place and stiff,
opened files, an omen dies,
and he spoke with a slight lisp

munching on something
light and crisp,
searching for nothing,
nothing's as vile and sick;

reaching for that one thing-
that gun thing, them rocks and sticks,

how about that sun thing ?
what would a son think,
when he's burdened by the mist,
pretending to be human enough
to pretend that he's amiss,

amidst the chaos and the risks,
forgotten names and letters,
from faces that he don't miss-

and they think it gets better
the more you drink and fish,
so ink yourself a moon, and
buy yourself a letter-
so, you can sin, sing and wish

for some time alone.