There sure are many a poor poet on out there
The ones who get the balance just wrong – soon as the alcohol and smokes take hold, the bold, bold bastards that they are
And we never, ever get to see them again, and why would we want to, you have to ask
Pens run terrifically dry, tears in each left-to-right, left-to-right eye
We just don’t, their haphazard poems intent on making it inside of one rag or other
One way or other they do smother us whole, the lonesome few too many above all else
I sit on both sides of that rolled dice – lonely and a smothering son of a bitch by all known reckoning
My cards fell all wrong and I will spend my entire life try as I might to pick them back up
Wanking into this goddamn sink
Wanting, no, NEEDING TO MAKE YOU AND YOUR LONELY FEW THINK