Fred’s a peddler of dreams Between caked on make- up grins And a dime sack of **** He puts holes in logic Like gaping buckshot wounds While he sells his wares To a corrupt, pretentious, college indie scene
The kids who sat in the back of high school dances “Jesus I wish they’d play some Rooney!” Are now ******* on the tongues of frat guy’s Who’s favorite songs are narrowed down to a lists of hits Played by Journey!
The same girls who dressed for cold New York days In a California heat storm. Who listened to Bob Dylan and The Doors But now they’re covered in the sweat of a ******* without the hope Of ******* Listening to Jay-z Not because they like it, oh no! They need to dance And at least he sings On key While kids who made Wordless promises Sit in the back Dropping LSD.
Fred’s a peddler of broken dream Reach your hand in his satchel For a fist full of glass shards, and rusted cutlery
He speaks in Biblical urban Like “Thy shalt not give in, give up, sell out, buy in, peace out!” And fred is a prophet on E He’s the only holy man who’s ever meant anything to me Or spoken a word more then the lessons I learned on Sunday’s PBS specials I need Fred like a savior needs second chance And I can find them at the bottles of these sugar coated alcoholic Drinks.
And I’ll fade to a dim reminder like the scars On the wrists of the girls and boys who wore the Nightmare before Christmas hoodies, and understood so well When they were younger that the only way To achieve anything Was to slice themselves under dull razor blades In bathtubs payed for by parents Who’s love was occupied by a 200 $ pay cut. But now the bloods dried and the scars are gone So 200 miles away and they haven’t learned A thing Or done A thing And when anything was possible They need a multiple choice, with an E For all the above
Fred these are my sacrifices, no love These are old and weary so now I can sit And watch the girl drown herself in alcohol Fred to you I give her. Put her in your bag of broken dreams And sell her back to me as a blood alcohol .40
Fred these are my payment in things I don’t own The guys in meaningless vintage clothes Dropping acid And convulsing in chairs Until their nothing but blink stares And steady green lines With the white noise swan song, and the time 4:40 am Put him in medicine bottle Marked “Lysergic acid diethylamide- For mild post college depression” And Me and you Fred can share a nice chuckle.
Fred’s a con artists He’s got an empty bag of ******* He’s got all the money he needs He’s the **** all poster child He’s the God I always imagined He’s the best part of the week He ‘s a lie caught between Some tongue and cheek And if I only knew what he said Was a cautionary tale And not some well thought out pitch or sale.
Well then Fred’s a messiah Handing out second chance In his knapsack. But his advice Is deafened by the constant hum and irritating beat Of a floor drums that’s moving the youth into an early graves. -Kevin T.