Sin, it Fits Like a Glove
by michael-jeffrey-wille
Oh follow me now
where the barrels were hid
for these are mistakes,
and the peasants are dead
Listen to gunshots
echo so slow
these are the dead children
of the Future of Old
And if, you lay, me down
stand up beside the lonesome playground.
Speak to the street vendor,
ask for your change.
Pray for the autumn wind to
wash for the rain
Shall I make do
while they're laughing at you?
Throw it away and go
kiss the Sun for blinding fame.
Will you feel the eyeballs
that make you so high?
Throw it back at them,
and you can kiss it goodbye.
Will you forbid
what the graverobber digs
or will you awaken
the farmhand's pigs?
Neptune's white mistress
holds out shattered stone.
She speaks so softly.
This is her new home.
And for forever more
shut your wives out, avoid petty whores.
Wash down your happiness
with a cognac of love.
Feel sin around you,
it fits like a glove