Sitting on the Bomb

Posted by on February 18, 2015

I was lost in my madness
Lost in my memories
Tied up intellectually and thinking of crime
The batteries on this old camera won’t yield up its treasures
A picture box that keeps its secrets to itself
Pour the wine

A shipwrecked train of bodies in mud
Oh how we laughed as the rain poured in
From holes in the roof, caught in our upturned helmets
Oh how we laughed as the shells burst outside
The walls, and our hearts, and the bubble of our dreams
Into poor poor soil

The quiet guy scribbled away in his diary
Here, keep this until I’m back in town
Then walked outside with a single bullet in the chamber
That sang a protest song as it crossed his mind

But the cigarettes and the wine are running out of ideas
And you dare not light a match lest the sniper pins you down
Dear God, these walls, these walls eat you alive
Pour the wine, pour your heart, poor poor soil
Poor poor soil

Oh how we laughed at the water that drank our packs
And rotted them from the bottoms on up
How we laughed, we laughed and we coughed up our blood
And guarded our shovels like Crown Jewels

Well the chickenshit custard moon’s hanging innocent
Pretending that it’s somewhere far away
All those girls in the low cut tops are screaming in the subways
And they’re throwing themselves from ships that leave seeds
Scattered on the surface of their poor poor soil.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Theme created by Contexture International, adapted by Suzi.