How’d the world become what it is? Mind constructing the edifice. How’d the world become what it is, can you tell me? Seeking out a light in the mist, but the predators are luminescent. Bushel full of sweet promises. Can you tell me? If you human history’s an autobiography, then everybody’s reading as victim and failing to see, that the perpetrator resides in your head and the blood of the new non-believer drips from your hands like ribbons of red. This is that that is that that is. ‘Jesus man your breath smells like death, could you pour another litre down it, is it helping?’ Distancing yourself from the split, dancing to folly like a drunk in the pit, dribbling incoherent bullshit my man can you tell me? Repeat Chorus. And really who’s to say no one’s deserving? Tree tops in deep valleys, a small disturbance, well now I know courage and cowardice. Bud when I fall it’s like a tonne of bricks. God help who’s underneath. To stem this flood could take a million lifetimes and yet still inundate.
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Some old fogeys don't like the 'screaming' music. I might be an old fogey and I love the screaming music. High Tension can scream for me all they want. Richard Weems