I've paid no mind
to any idea that wasn't written
before a great depression;
lay down a single drug addict
to the gods of a nation

the prophets
they're in an uproar
armed themselves with rocks
fine print dissolved
in rockets sure shot
sore pox and incinerated pockets
so the lining's
less than the header
5 cents a pop
predictions are like a great fuck
one that never stops

oh, Georgia
did you lose yourself again
southern charm can't comfort
even the proudest gentleman

My is a word
thats un-nerving
when nothing's truly yours
if I'm not paying for lenoleum
footprints on the floor,
or some tasteless other trinket
to keep the white house
neat during war

so whats gonna stop me
from going out again
when everything gained
is in expense

and whats gonna keep me
in this time
when everything dies before its time