And this is fleeting,
|
This sick, sickness I'm seeking,
|
With tire tread tired eyes,
|
A crooked smile,
|
You'd love, to defile.
|
|
Don't let me down,
|
With my ear to the ground,
|
I can hear the earth sigh,
|
At the sight of your insides,
|
As you hide behind the lies that
|
you so desperately tell.
|
|
Fists pummeling like cruise ships,
|
And motorcycle teeth,
|
That are humming between
|
our breaths, And rest,
|
To the beat,
|
Of these simple streets.
|
|
-----------------
|
The October Tradition
|
| Southcott |
