Bottle & Sensebyspence5969©
Blues and jazz tripping off a string,
echoing through my hollow head.
Why can't I believe in anything?
It seems as if I'm dead.
The smoke swirls, the room twirls,
the lights blur, my thoughts curl;
a simple sardonic smile remains,
wrestles with the world I've trained.
As if to show he's not to blame,
he washes away with the rain.
The bottle's contents get ever lower,
the words come now, ever slower;
they play with noun's quenching fire,
drowning my lies only desire,
I've got music, but no purpose;
life's become aimless, what could be worse?
I try to drown my life of hate,
but I'd just as soon masturbate.
What is queer, and what is strait?
Here comes the answer, but it's to late.
Blues and jazz go tripping off a string,
they start to sound good, but sound hollow instead.
At this point, who cares what tomorrow brings.
There's only one way to get ahead.
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