I will make myself, a mile from the racetrack, drag my losses home.
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It kills me not come back.
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And we float with parasites all our lives.
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There's me with the geriatrics at the slot machines.
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There's me, the embodiment of how slow life can be.
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There's me. Their dead eyes are glowing. Mine are always shut.
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I passed out on the road, just hours from the racetrack.
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I saw Lamotta raise a toast.
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He said "you got me with the right jab."
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And we float with parasites all our lives with this advice: we learn until we're dead.
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Be losers til your sanguine thoughts subside.
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We learn until we're dead.
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A falling dream's not just a morbid sign.
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It's opportunity.
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These days I find beauty as depressing as years beyond my time.
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If you could make this old heart young again I'd find another topic to drone on,
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a more fashionable vice to lean on.
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Some better words to speak on that escaped my younger form.
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But there's me with the geriatrics at the slot machines.
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There's me. The embodiment of how slow life can be.
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There's me. Short of imposing, please be involved.
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Can I stop imploding at every obstacle thrown on me?
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Imply this is only a prettier glimpse of a life so ugly that's mine.
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-----------------
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William Blake Overdrive
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| A Wilhelm Scream |
