After weeks around the same worn groove,
thousands of miles seemingly without purpose,
no lasting home to speak proudly of yet,
just my exhausted body over a hard surface,
until the next aimless stop beyond our proposal.
Tried various speeds and time schedules,
grinning at strangers to embarrassment,
laughed myself sick about vapid jokes,
pop from behind doors as an easy scare,
then pass atop a bench taking in rumors.
Pulling down above the dirt and concrete,
a sorry pretentious show of brute strength,
throwing hats in the air and thumbs in pockets,
better love the Lord more than your mother,
or your stiff neck’s gonna side-dress a tree.
Either alcohol is suddenly my favorite drink now,
I don’t give a goddamn if it is really Sunday,
because my layers of skin tear as yours,
and we’re all closer to death by only asking,
might as well get off your filthy knees, cowards.
Your stinking town is a broken mirror under my boot,
these hateful crosses are headless against a swift kick,
gasoline burns trucks great like an exciting funeral pyre,
creating a very specific dust bowl for folks to wallow in,
where I’ll be joyfully counting each undigested nasty bone.
Sharwrong's Song 