Bloody, faker
Featured in that travel brochure
Died from a bayonet wound to the soul
But tell me, where do winter children go?

Oh, the terror!
Oh, it's obsolete
And it's cowering at your feet
To reclaim the glory you took from it
Something tangible, something palpable
Not worth money
Not worth dialogue
But is it worth saving?
It is it worth salvaging?
It's crawling out of a submarine
That locked your lungs and sunk your eyes
That makes you soft at young ages
And dooms to work jobs
At minimum wages

You don't
Need
Money

You dance better
Than
Smoke in the wind

Don't drink away
Your pain
Where is mercy?
Where is hope?

I can tell you where it's not.
The bottom of that bottle.
Bones rattle to the tune
Of you singing to the moon