Sitting here behind a cloud of smoke in this gin tinged dumpster joint
glazed over eyes drinking in the bleakness of the world in all the customers
coming and going, such a dismal state of affairs and oh the affairs they're having
wedding rings found in the pockets when they're going for cash the next morning
the sanctity of that institution, ultimately the meaning is being phased out
on a generational level, a rye chuckle, never been the marrying type,
settling down with two kids and a dog type, picket fence type,
sounds like a slower suicide than sitting here, behind a row of empty glasses and bottles
there's no question where the ichor in the glass stands, empty
empty like this white man's ambitions, like his dreamless nights
go to sleep intoxicated, wake up like you've been battered around, sore and destroyed
with nothing to show for it, no title belt, no gold, just twice as tired and slower for all the pain
******* his teeth, looking at the shuffling bystanders moving about
flies buzzing around this open sewage, a king's feast just for them
one day a trumpet will blow, you muse to yourself, rolling the last drop of swill around a crystal cup
and that warm, honey-like texture, sticky and thick, slowly pours down his throat at a molasses pace
more spit than substance, like the words exchanged in the fervor of the night
we all wander willingly into our hole in the wall, where we become tell-tale hearts
never wanting to come back out, you muse as your eyes and instinct clash
stay open, but it's past two, so close, another one to help him decide
and another, hits to the head that'd leave grown men reduced to childlike
all this squalor, so glorious in the vibrant glow of evening
a hand lands on his shoulder, you turn around to see who it is
hey, life don't stop for you to get hurt kid,
sunrise.