Standing on a hill and looking down
the old man walks around the bend of the road,
able to see the lights of the town below
the ant hole in the dusk

Mumbling, "Put me down"

"We are all stuck in this place
always having
looking for the change in the
dust of the couch cushion
for some lost remainder of..
something?
but the feeling grows and hands fumble faster

From the men who sow their oats
in sweaty palms and sold their souls
to haughty women dipped in fragrant balms

To the surfeits in the pubs gnawing on bone
and wishing for fresh meat to devour
to go down with the poison
that dampens the sound of the endless drone

And for each ****** out left a woman to wait on,
the *** that was once a knight
transformed through the sorcery of time
in to someone unwanted"