Jump out of my skin
At the sun coming up.
Running into the ground, like a misdemeanor
Or the itch of fame.
Thinking back at the turmoil of this path
It leads thru green meadows and times
Where worry is vague.

Like the lions guarding the gates of Art, Rex & M.C.

Sit and idle by,
Aloof they wait, and suddenly
Heavenly in the next life, I see two eyes
Follow me - I keep pilled upon pillow
And turn in my sweat filled bed.

By the march
      of my slave drummer, I cut
Cut, Cut,
only to be twisted into a heaving mass of sleepless babble,
Churning a group shot's worth of stomach.

My voice soothless and toothless empty
      By today's standard youth.

      Still I shrine to shine
     The past monotony or life.

        It's hard faces at night.
The floor littered with things to due, and sounds of street
  Lamps glowing, brain burning away. Flying South for some
winter, where you can't run away. And the Lion roars!!!

    See his jungle-jingle in my pocket Now
    Tamed of the cruelties Art brings.
    The poison of critic and loneliness only.

True sailing is red and night is filled with things I can't do.
This is good.
    To explore with an empty bed, filling it with secrets no one cares
about. It's where I'm at.

    You think the time is here, but it plows thru the fields,
    Decimating December's morbid yield.

Not even a meow heralds this angel
    Into heaven, sick from many a tired sojourn, and smiling.

    In the cold of the unknown
    There is a smile waiting in the wings
    It sees the glow inside and
    Fans the flames of fame, to be burned
    By other things.

Common as we might and seek to and a trival. Cut Cut Cutting the
Rudder from the sail. Now blown bye, The fate that destiny has set.
No steer can seer, or solemn or forget.