Grudge Music

Deaf, blind granite block content to graze with familiar

stock. A local

lard not an english black, we don't venture into the fog.

Homeward bound and

gagged not twenty steps from the door. Dispensable as

cooks at sea or

journalists sent to war. No one found me spellbinding, no

one offered me a

drink. But by crippled hands at the potters wheel, I was

given shape and

insects appeal. Sent to work the graveryard shift at

heaven's JDC. A legend to

the peasants there, but lights had caught me unaware.

I've wandered into your

graces, so how do I get out? It's been quiet for too

long, but pompous phrases

and alarms can't help you now. And every pervert outside

of every fence has had

his fill of your kids. He's clocking out. Such indecisive

crusaders. A martyr

made into a scenic blur. A lookout into a left behind.

What wounded pride. No

one finds me spellbinding. No ones buying me a drink.

I've been to the lions.

Left high and dry by the 8th circle of hell. Where are

the spoils? I want the

ticker tape parade. Damn these filthy rats.