Your feet got tangled
in your own **** name
Layed
nights out end-to-end,
now you're the oldest one here drinking
in this dingy, shaking basement
by at least "a couple years or so,"
so shrink from searching eyes.
Strike up that ****** band again--
your teeth have grown tall enough
to ditch this ride
Outside,
some drunken crusty's
trying hard to pick a fight
and shadowed necking in the corners
punctuates the "Got a light?"s
like drowsy eyes and
yawning sighs parenthesize
the way you check your phone a thousand times
"Hey, don't you work tomorrow?"
Yes, I ******* work tomorrow and...
Though all these fresh-lit fuses
sizzle--
--starlight studs in leather night--
the morning leaves you spark-singed
paper, sulfur lungs
and sagging eyes
The stairway's ******* crowded
with a thousand younger yous,
feet creak the upstairs floorboards
cue the crooked smiles in familiar hues
But pigs have pens
and feet have boots.
Old hats need heads
and birds, they need their roosts
So let the lines fill in
on this fermenting face
and lay this craggy grin
into its worn-in place
beneath these creaking stairs
and let this basement shake.
It's kinda weird being the oldest dude at a house show sometimes. But **** it, right? It's still fun. And, honestly, these days, my friends' bands don't even **** that much anymore...
