An Affinity For Exuberance

A wounded soul leaps highest

I've heard the poet tell

'tis but the ecstasy of death

and then the breath is still

As I lay, defeated, I'm dying

longing to have you near

as I lay, defeated, I'm dying

longing to have you here

The smitten soul that gushes

the trampled heart that springs

a wearied ghost that keeps running

from where the torment stings

Mirth is the prelude to anguish,

and laughter is its final aim

lest some fucker spot the wicked

and do not fail to exclaim!

As I lay, defeated, I'm dying

longing to have you near

as I lay, defeated, I'm dying

longing to have you here

Success is counted sweetest

by those who never succeed

to comprehend a fame like this

requires sorest need

Not one of all those fuckers

who rose the flag today

can even tell the definition of fame

so pure, of victory