I am the all-American boy,
the all-American toy gone wrong
with a good song I can sing
while I bring to life
the music of my strife when sad,
never being bad, but being good
at it while on food of joy I dine
and drink wine and listen to the world
all curled up on the couch
like a slouch in a den
of sin that grows grey
as I obey the voice of a god
that to me is odd and white,
full of spite and would like to do me harm
in his charm of the sour and sweet,
the towers of treats that find me ill
at the windowsill in a day or three
wishing I wasn't me or anyone,
the long lost son of a bitch
with an itch that I can't cure
because I'm not pure of heart,
the art of dismay my secret talent
in a low rent place that isn't my home,
where I'm pardoned to roam free and alone
on a bench on the phone wondering which way is up
the cup half empty like my head in a dream,
things aren't what they seem when I wake
and I take for granted the promises said,
everything's dead in my hands,
the sands of time running through
all I've got to do to survive,
to strive to get by
so that I don't die a sad death
breathing my last breath and seeing the light,
feeling the fright of the end
all my friends fading and gone,
watching the dawn in the morn
the feeling of forlorn vanishing with sleep
with the company that I keep.
22 May 06 - Boulder, CO
