Myssouri Muscle Car On A Dead End Road
The great grey sky, flat and wide, shivers above the
heat. And silver rain lays like razor blades into the
wounded miles of wheat. And the road resists with the
rubbery kiss of meat. A solitary tower, beaconed and
boned, strobes red as the liquid wind blows, like blood
in a river, and I turn to the driver, say, "This is a
dead end road." And the driver nods he knows. But the
muscle car never slows. Sit down and soak in the rain
and the woe. Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead
end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the
stultifying night. Think of anything that could
disguise your life. But don't dream of the girl with
the golden hair, cause that dream is old, and there's
nothing there for you. A great black lie blacked the
ride and the devil stole your seat. And all about
outside were circumscribed signs of your imminent
defeat. But the driver never speaks. Still you traverse
that hide like a cursed pariah, but who's the one who
uttered the oath? You got your diatribe and your
assorted messiahs, but what if you're deprived of both?
And your homely little hoax. And your homely little
hoax. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe. Stoke
your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take a
drink, steal a light in the nullifying night. Think of
anything that could negate your life.. But don't dream
of the girl with the golden hair. 'Cause that dream is
old, and there's nothing there for you. Something rises
by the side of the road beneath the sky's judging sty
where your view explodes to reveal the peeled head of a
buzzard in your bed and it smiles at all your wiles
with a lover's dread and it's preaching to you with its
clacking maw that your provision of a service as a
fodder for the fraud is like a tiny abyss, not what it
appears, but all your artifice fits, so if you can
hear, hear me, hear me: You are nothing, like you
should be. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe.
Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take
a drink, steal a light in the stultifying night. Think
of anything that could disguise your life. Sit down and
soak and piss and moan. Stoke your fire in the mire of
the dead end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the
sadistic night. Think of anything that could have saved
your life. But don't dream of the girl with the golden
hair, 'cause that dream was sold so long ago by you.
