His Thunder

I’m a mat and I still retain

Accumulated stories of the tawdry years

I’ve been stamped out by rum-fuelled boots

The brute, us hiding under stairs

Waiting for his thunder to hit

Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it?

Waiting for his thunder to shout

Waiting for his thunder to tire itself out

So I lie flat, in sheets worn thin

By his sublimations that reside within

For I’m the truth, the two in ten

That suffer at the whims of the weakest men

Waiting for his thunder to hit

Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it?

Waiting for his thunder to shout

Waiting for his thunder to tire itself out

Each bruise I use as a chronicle of all that you gave me now

And every scar a reminder of the power that you had

The saddest part about the darkest hours

The implication that the fault was ours

Waiting for his thunder...

Waiting for his thunder to hit

Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it?