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 gang bang 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.