"salesman" poems
i
give me my lifes´
the day crowded bright
and the night sumptuous..
give me my pretty wife
where love at first sight
bind us..
give us two souls blithe
fused as light within light
sweet bounteous..
let us soar and dive
like content swallows might
time in lost happiness..
( and let trouble and strife
bind-us the more tight
like our first kiss..)
give then to two one life
white to white
whole as stars
as love unto death
might break apart
and ride the cosmos..
ii
the jonah by james herbert
a heist goes wrong and a colleage
is shot..
just another debacle for our hero
in a long list
that has him transferred to the
drug squad and east anglia..
to live in a caravan..
keep his eye on the locals
and drink strong beer..
ellie his partner
makes him eat
and they fall in love
though various tentions rise
due to his troubles..
some flash backs
a left baby in a toilet
sadistic stuff at the orphanage..
bullies and dodgy collars
his step father is strict
he is an ornothologist..
there are drug related incident
a dead vole
a us pilot bites the farm..
some little boy thinks he
can fly..
the water supply
some pilfering
some heavy knocks
some bad lies
some kitchen
small potatoes
but all part
of mr herbert´ s charm..
a huge storm
the spooky old mill
a wild trip..
and regression
bad men
bad men..
lot´ s of struggle
the raw products
towed in by trawler
assembled by the knights
torn
and a lost twin..
a monster in the flood
where others die
a maitre d..
a ***** salesman and
his girl in a caravan
the fishermen..
helicopters and
victory for
the forces of good..
and the jonah
gone and all
is light..
the end..
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
The private gun salesman
divine savior of our life,
liberty, and pursuit of happiness!
Washes his own hands
of the matter,
he has no need for Mary Magdalene,
divine ********** hippie.
Arms outstretched
he sacrifices his own collection
(for a sum of course)
for the anonymous benefit
of a person who
"seems alright".
They aren't Mexican or Black after all!
Or God forbid, Indian!
What would we do
without that Just defender?
Our private gun salesman,
divine savior of America.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
HOT WHEELS.
I went from broke to buying a Lamborghini,
Price tag not so teeny,
Sleek and black, for my driving academy,
Or should I buy the red Ferrari?
Command a salesman to "comprare"?
Wouldn't he be a happy chappy?
But would it make me happy?
I could be buying loads of stuff,
But when you're old, you've got enough!
To me, consumerism is in vain,
My peaceful simple life in the slow lane.
So, today I did not buy the red Ferrari,
Or indeed the sleek Lamborghini,
There was no Hot Wheels Driving School,
Consumerism as a manipulative tool.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I made my own stop.
I made my own end of the line.
I made my own terminal.
I end here.
Someone died here today;
the start of their journey,
and the end of my own.
oil blood urine
fluids of mechanic and natural origins.
I peddle my wares;
I sell my sweat;
I am an energy salesman.
I ride this rail on rubber, not steel.
I do not intend to steer clear
but still be clear when the front-end is near.
Electric elephants bound to acrobat playgrounds.
Painted Tusks as valuable as my soul.
I do not meddle with my pedal:
joules of life grow more valuable.
energy exchanged
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
It's like the movie
part of me*
It tells me where I should
go and want to be
**Please note that I will say
Not a dark place
inside my suitcase**
"Robin Red Breasted" suit
Peck and nip and tuck in place
The rainbow iridescent
Suiting her taste wet rain tents
Everyone was Green with envy
**Robin/ Rainbow event lets hear
it for our Army so many
troops**
He was sitting politely
Like a salesman of suitcases
on her stoop
She was mesmerized
Living out of a tour suitcase
She wanted daisies she was
ready for fantasies
Of him in her suitcase
Tumbling through
Another time Postman
Singing birds to ring twice
Birds all in groups
Computer laptops she wanted
to be surprised so mysterious
But ready for love ingenious
He laughed not losing sight
Robin eats like a bird
so hilarious
She packed her sunshine
yellow ribbons
she was ready to feed
Those Brooklyn pigeons
Packed suitcase ready for
the love of God
Going frenzy from her fruit loops
Robin Birdie born traveler scoop
Well nested flying South
fully invested
Rocking her flight cradle
Wherever I go or whatever I do
Traveling packs meet
Mr. Ramen noodles
Getting silly splashing puddles
The Spiritual Zen
traveling boots over a shower
He kissed them high up (Eiffel Tower)
Rome Italy wines in love cahoots
The call I'm ready "Amazon" wild
Let us go, child, another story
But the wildcard fresh air
Oh! Dear
The lightness easy does it
feathering wings the clues fit
Packing my suitcase
Love is a drug of "Europe"
Perfectly fine wine
Always hope with cantaloupe
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Welcome to the con! The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.
He's no doctor. And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful
thing in this diatribe of mine). He used the doctor moniker to
sell more books!
That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green
Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,
Sam I Am.
It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"
how to sell book disguised as children's literature.
And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a
sale. He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***
"Would you eat them in a box? Would
you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
them with a goat. Would you eat them on a
boat". Would you eat green eggs and ham,
would you eat them Sam I Am?
Dr. Seuss
And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.
I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more
than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's
seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that
Sam I Am is pushing so hard. Here are some of the ingredients
he may or may not have found.
Ham -- 30 grams of sugar (questionable )
-- 15 grams of caffeine (untested)
Green eggs -- Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
-- Handfuls of ******* (rumored)
As you can see, It's not an exact science.
People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to
warn you that your food has gone bad.
But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green
eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it. Maybe the books lesson
is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or
never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and
evil in the book. I have to think that way. Because after all -- I'm
Willoughby !!
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
I read him one of my poems
He complemented my mechanics
And although part of me laughed
Wondering how he heard me breathe the commas
Heard my spelling bee winner's letter placement
Still
The notion stuck
Steadfast
Push-pinned in my memory
In the neglected space where kind gestures live
I told him how I appreciated it
I should've told him
Boy no no
You don't understand
My mechanics need fixing
No not my grammar boy
I should've told him to volunteer
Sweet boy
I know hands are easier to work with than words
Touch me with both
Shhhh sweet boy
Fix me with your good nature
Let it wash over me
Wash away my grime
You needn't a good speaking voice
But a good intention
Warming arms
To thaw me
Couldn't hurt
But sweet boy
Too bad
We all grow sick of licorice
And I broke you
Like the mantelpiece momma told me not to play around
I broke you
For a less sweet boy
With a politician tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I broke you
Hardened you
Into a less sweet boy
With a polititia- err
Salesman tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I left you
Gone with the wind
You were the Rett
In the search for my Ashley
But he broke me
Like the soldiers countenance heading to combat
He left me
Wondering
Where all the sweet boys could have gone
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Restless hungry, found a tiny scrap of a brownie in the back of the refrigerator, wrapped in plastic about the size of a large 35 cent quarter.
Gobbled up and gone.
Eye had purchased it a week ago, maybe more.
Actually it was more like eye was held up at gunpoint by a sad young face for a large and green single dollar Bill.
In return, was bequeathed said brownie eye dropper-ful.
The apartment I live in a big city, many apartments were recession empty for a long time. But in the last few years, the empty apartments in the building were almost all sold to foreigners.
Now the bldg is an amulet melted of the lucky overseas fortunate, those overseers overseas seizers, who come to reside in the most fabulous site in these United States...and buy a piece of the dream away from the be-headers, secret police or governments that decide you are now an enemy of the state, as of this morning. No judgement.
anyway, this doe eyed child of estimated six or eight years of age accosts me in our large lobby, proffers me the brownie scrap for a Bill.
me a sucker of a salesman myself, and an eye affician-doe, well those doefuls, those eyes, no one could resist!
so eye asked her name,
but all she could say in
Anglais was...
"Brownie One Dollar?"
laughing out loud for no apparent cause,
the hanging about lobbyists looked at me staring...
Why was eye laughing?
laughing cause eye realized
this elfin child had become
fitfully but fully Americanized.
and I loved her eyes in mine, and when I see her periodically, I say:
"Hey! Brownie One Dollar, How are ya!"
and everyone snicker smiles at the old man with the even stupider grin upon his eyes.
That would be eye.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
In a long happy marriage
Sometimes bedtime grows stale
Once toe curling *** fades
As libidos doth fail.
We both have tough jobs
And two kids of our own.
Sad, we both want to sleep
When we’re finally alone
The man at the store
Said “I have just the thing.
You really should try it-
makes your *** life take wing!”
It wasn’t a **** flick
Or a blue pill to swallow,
Just a tiny transmitter
to hide in her pillow.
At night, as she slept,
The salesman explained
My subliminal message
would be fed to her brain.
With her passions inflamed
She would turn to her mate
Like the once nubile bride-
Leave the rest up to fate.
So I made a recording
With a saucy suggestion
Then looked forward to bedtime
hoping for the res-errection.
My bride’s a deep sleeper,
(A good thing since I snore)
The tape’s played two weeks now
And I still haven’t scored.
I completely was baffled
That salesman assured
That no “wood” would go wasted
No ***** ignored.
Instead every night
About two thirty nine
I’d slip off to the bath
Where the “beat” would go on
I resolved to return
The unhelpful device
Before the guarantee ended
And I’d be out the price
Imagine my shock,
imagine my dread
When I found the transmitter
in my pillow instead!
Seems my wife had decided
To play with my head:
“Honey, go f8ck yourself,
If you wake me, you’re dead.”
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Don’t drink the elixir
That he’s trying to sell
If you start believing him
He'll catch you in his spell
Avoid the snake oil salesman
At all and any cost
If you follow his advice
You’ll truly be lost
He’s a snake oil salesman
Traveling state to state
Trying to sell his portion
That you're gonna learn to hate
(2nd Verse)
Don’t drink his elixir
Though pleasant to the taste
Some have bought it wholesale
Others by the case
Don’t believe the claims
The snake oil salesman makes
He’ll say or do anything
That he thinks it takes
He’s a snake oil salesman
Traveling state to state
Trying to sell his portion
That you're gonna learn to hate
He’ll never reveal what’s inside
Of his opaque bottle
But he wants you to take the ride
While he goes full throttle
He’s a snake oil salesman
You better heed my warning
It might be too late
Once you’re underneath his awning
He’s a snake oil salesman
I’ve told you once before
Cuz it’s at your own peril
If you choose to ignore
He’s a snake oil salesman
Traveling state to state
Trying to sell his portion
That you'll learn to hate
Don’t drink his elixir
Though pleasant to the taste
Some have bought it wholesale
Others by the case
Don’t believe the claims
The snake oil salesman makes
He’ll say or do anything
That he thinks it takes
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
A snake doesn't just throw shade
We thrive in the shadows
Stalking our prey,
Think you've got what it takes
We'll swallow you whole.
I dare the kittens birdys & roadkill
To make a mistake
You really think your house spits
poison Better than a snake?
Our Partsel tongue is "forked for her pleasure"
Each time we seal a letter
witches get wetter
other houses cringe at our fame
cold blooded killers
don't buy it? Just wait.
Our Snakeoil salesman
Will Have you beggin' for change
You dare to stand against a python?
You don't even know code
I can't pull punches
if I don't have hands, Bro.
Like medusas hair dresser
Expect-to petrify
Better call Cobra
Get insurance for your life.
What's the matter
Gonna cry?
Because We can't.
Ask science.
I dare you to challenge
My Reptilian brethren
We're Unhinging our jaw
getting fed like it's league of legends.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
I’m a travelling salesman
between the 1A on 91.3
and songs that hurt
on my Pandora station
I go door to door
selling hope
The problem with
selling hope
is having some to
spare
a client once told me
“you can’t front a berry
and still make a berry”
I think she was
talking about ******
but the sentiment
stands.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
I have a special interest in telling about my colonoscopy.
The doc cheerful, secure in his specialty, colon cancer being
the second leading cause of cancer death after lung tumors.
They can snip the precancerous polyps right out of you during the test.
At first the doc gave me the statistics but having paid 25 bucks for this
interview
I decided to make him explain the science. He was most comfortable
describing the physical architecture of adenomatous v. hyperplastic
polyps
but what about cell structure I said. He was vague about genes and
hormones,
I could have been chatting with an Electrolux salesman.
I wasn’t worried although my *** was burning.
Everybody dies, everybody, even Whitman and Emerson, so I browse
models for dying—
mine are middlebrow, saddlebow—John Wayne in The Shootist, Paul
Newman in Hombre—or hagiography
Plath her head stuck in an oven, Hemingway who ate his shotgun.
Anyway I was upbeat flirting with the nurse, a muse who has seen it all
before,
acting tough, which isn’t actually an act
you do your prep and say your prayers.
I thought I’d be in and out **** as you probably already know
the prep for this procedure is worthy of Gandhi. A day of fasting,
clear fluids only, and constant voiding.
You arrive at the hospital one spiritual chicken.
I reflected it can’t hurt, lose a little weight, remember who you are
without so much **** and flesh between you and the natural world.
Snipping polyps is like taking electrons to a lower quantum energy level,
nearer the nucleus, with fasting and ****** abstinence.
The art of total presence and abstinence, dependence on the Other for
future existence.
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 7:09 AM UTC
My father was famous for
noticing endings
admitting defeats
accepting declines
moving along
being a good, end-of-game sport.
Sometimes
he’d spark a surprise
come back—
an evening of the score.
“*The folks are as good
as the people*” he’d declare.
But as life
invariably turns out,
the folks are
rarely
as good
as the people
the pitcher as the batter
the husband as the wife
the striker as the goalie
the salesman as the prospect
the child as the parent
the ying as the yang.
In competitions someone
always conquers, even if just a bit;
the other
always loses, even if just surface wounds—
death always comes
natural or quick.
Then you
know:
“*It’s all over
but the crying.*”
Dad,
I’ve been crying,
but when will I know
“it’s over?”
And, since some “folks” aren’t
so good after all, please tell:
How victorious is victory?
Who is defeated in defeat?
What is the final score?
Who won again?
The true score for when it’s over is
perhaps how
we make sense of the endings,
beginnings,
and
rebeginnings
of life
shared and solitary.
So where is that game clock
that tally board, that ledger to
release my game
announce my endings
settle my scores
so I can do my crying
and
prepare
for next season?
18.i.11
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
I'm searching for intelligent life
not in outer space but here on earth.
I turn over a rock
and find congress, the president,
a couple used car salesman
and a worm.
the choice is obvious.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
His owner didn't quite know why
Maybe asthma or an allergy,
Maybe it was a cough or even a sigh.
He was a cat and that was no mystery.
He looked like a normal pet,
Colored just like a giraffe,
But, often at the strangest times
He made a sound just like a laugh.
One day a salesman came to call.
Bliggle's owner was a widow.
And sitting with Bliggle by her side
They watched him through the window.
The salesman knocked, she let him in,
He looked at her and Bliggle.
He told her all about his wares.
And the cat began to giggle.
The man went red and sweaty faced
And waved his hands and told her
She must buy his 'Whizzyclink'!
He would stay there until he sold her.
The widow said she didn't care
If the thing cost a buck and a half.
She wouldn’t buy the kind of gizmo
That could make a kitty cat laugh.
The salesman fumed and shouted then
So she opened up the door.
The salesman went all afluster,
Then he stomped across the floor.
The spoilsport then cursed at her
And called her 'an old bat',
And in his rage and fury
He tripped over Bliggle the cat.
Not hurt at all, the cat just sat
And stared at him awhile.
The salesman gathered up his goods
And Bliggle slowly smiled.
The salesman soon gave up his trade,
He could not live down the rumor,
That he lost his art to pitch a sale
To a cat with a sense of humor.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
My grandpa is in a rocking chair
in the living room
He slowly moves back and forth
His eyelids are closed
He listens to the talk around him
but he doesn't take part
Instead he dozes off
his head drooping to his chest
His swaying ceases
His breathing slows
The house he sits in has been his own
for the past fifty years
He raised seven children under its roof
He added an addition for each new child
first another bedroom
then the family room
out in back the garage
Until the house became a home
made of love and sweat
Around Pop
the conversation drifts
to a grandson who just got a job
working behind a desk
for an insurance company
making sixty-five thousand per year
Pop never made that much money
A coal miner's son
who earned his degree
taking classes whenever he could
A salesman by day
and a teacher by night
He had a hard life
but you won't hear that from him
His grandson may think
that he must have been dumb
to work so long and hard
for so little reward
But what he doesn't understand
is that my Pop
sitting in his rocker
in front of the brick fireplace
that he built one stone at a time
achieved more in his lifetime
through hard work
and sweat
than my cousin ever will
by wearing a suit to work
sitting behind a desk
and typing on a computer
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:12 PM UTC
Your rhymes were a bin bag thrown
in the trash, couldn't even write a
sentence, dyslexia of meaning
and ****** up sentences that
weren't even spelt write.
Couldn't even spin a line,
as it was meant to be straight
but your words were more wavy than
a bad perm.
There isn't room for a failed wanna be,
alone in your room ************
hard,
But your more empty than the raisin
***** your trying to spit out of...
Non consequential wording that doesn't flow
down stream,
more like your floating bloated
breath releasing putrid gas
that stinks more than what they were belching out.
I never insult the cadavers of dead lines,
but your words were buried even before
you opened that hurse of dead beats.
a handful of rhymes that were more powerful than
your buried career,
sorry you were a foot in the grave even before you
opened your mouth.
Song I wrote after I used your girl..
I wasn't the one she wanted it was you,
but I gave her what she wanted
and that never included you..
Every thing you wanted I stole,
and gave her fake wishes that were
tarnished but she never looked beyond
the moment seeing the stitching
of us was more fake than the smiles I gave her.
I knew she wanted to be with you,
but I was the salesman of woman..
While you were the boy next door, I was the salesmen
showing her fake dreams..
Don't worry you can have her after I've used her enough,
I'll even trade her in for a good price..
Ye, she'll be broken..
But everything is always defective
after I've rode it enough...
Her crown maybe cracked,
but she'll be yours even though she'll be thinking
of me even though your in her, I'm the length
she'll remember but she'll be your crack queen.
Now this is enough of wording.
and I'm moving on to the next one.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
They call me a raving lunatic
My mind is poor and sick
Manic vagabond, mystic sorcerer
Snake Oil Salesman, Son of Lucifer
Given wings of Raven feathers
Cursed to live in stormy weather
Chaos lives beneath the color of my painted teeth
I've a dark mind indeed, of morbid persuasion
Come sing along to your damnation
Ride the cannibal sensation
Devise a way to survive the game
Or you won't get out alive again
Alchemy infernal, elixir of dark might
Inhale the emerald Smoke of Jesterian Light
Given to us a seventh sight
Arise to conquer the lies this night
Our darkest night
A beast, a fiend, a wicked thing
I'm a regular madman
A creep, a dream, a demon seed
A regular madman
Indeed
Follow me through the thick of the trees
Over roots and rocks and dying leaves
To a darker realm of mystery
Where everyone is a freak like me
A better place, you'll see
A better place indeed
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
From the depths of hell
Where I slowly fell
A deal made with the devil
As I started tossing pennies in a well
But the angels came and broke my fall
Saved me from sinking, down this hellhole
The life I sold is more precious than gold
That my friend is what I saw,life is now more clearer and bold
But after all upon throwing them all
Before the saving and breaking of my fall
I drowned in fame,money and ***
for 7 years I ruled the world as it rise to an apex
But then downfall and recollection came tormenting my soul
Hellhounds came gnarling,scratching and waiting at my bedroom door
Regrets starts falling alone with my tears as I prayed for salvation
Never thought God listened, As the angels descent ended my damnation
The devil is a salesman and you're a valued costumer
Starts thinking 7 times before you go and starts to barter
For your soul is more precious than what you think you'll be having
God gave me a second chance never thought my soul is worth saving
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
You apologize as if you feel remorse.
You lie!
It's all about the sale.
I was merely your customer and the bed was your product.
Anything for a sale, anything to convince me you had what I wanted.
But you were the one that wanted what I had.
You apologize because you miss me.
Well baby, keep em comin cause I'm not buyin.
A lonely salesman is all you'll ever be.
Apologizing for your selfish words and charming lies.
Pity party honoring you, tragic life thats only yours.
Salesman, I'm not interested.
Your money does not impress.
Salesman, show me the door!
I don't care how sharp you dress.
Salesman, you had me fooled.
Your flashy cars and fancy toys were your favorite tool.
I don't give a **** what the world says you're worth,
because it's only a name, simply a title.
A lonely salesman is all you'll ever be, a
lonely salesman who thinks of me.
Keep dreaming baby cause I'm never coming back.
You had your way with me, stole it all in only a day.
'I love you' is what you speak, but 'I lust you' is all that leaks.
Talking large and living the same.
Hooking me was purely a mind game.
A lonely salesman is all you'll ever be, a
lonely salesman who thinks of me.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC