Wednesday, 22 August 2018

I Guess We'll Call Him Spike

Everyone has left you and so you desperately hope
That you will find yourself at the bottom of a bottle instead of at the end of a rope
And you would laugh at yourself but irony says that on the sounds you'll choke
And anyway, you're sick of everyone acting as if life is just a joke
So you lay on the floor wondering if the ceiling will give you what you crave
Collapse and send a beam of wood hurtling halfway through your brain

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