It wore him down
|
His head was hanging sideways,
|
His lids were slits.
|
This happened almost nightly now.
|
He raised the glove
|
And waited for another round.
|
|
He waited for the bell to ring,
|
He prayed the lord would save his eyes.
|
He heard church-folk swaying and sighing
|
"it's all right."
|
|
He liked his kids,
|
He liked his sky-blue Valiant,
|
He like the pay.
|
"The boss' fine young talent"
|
They all would say.
|
And just a pension later
|
He'll be free,
|
Do what he wants.
|
Bereave the dream,
|
Now sleep,
|
Now slowly die
|
|
-----------------
|
Punchdrunk
|
| Far |
