I¡¯m a mat and I still retain
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Accumulated stories of the tawdry years
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I¡¯ve been stamped out by rum-fuelled boots
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The brute, us hiding under stairs.
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Waiting for his thunder to hit
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Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it?
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Waiting for his thunder to shout
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Waiting for his thunder to tire itself out.
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So I lie flat, in sheets worn thin
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By his sublimations that reside within
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For I¡¯m the truth, the two in ten
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That suffer at the whims of the weakest men.
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Waiting for his thunder¡¦
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Each bruise I use as a chronicle of all that you gave me now
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And every scar a reminder of the power that you had
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The saddest part about the darkest hours
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The implication that the fault was ours.
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Waiting for his thunder¡¦
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-----------------
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His Thunder
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| Little Comets |
