No
matter how many pins a poet drains,
how full of * he is or ain't,
well, it ain't up to him to tell you.
So if burning out sounds better,
and leaving handsome corpses makes good sense,
well,
then by all means crown the lizard.
Every single story,
flamehouse,
purgatory,
playlist,
skirts,
the payouts,
anyone from his loins might collect.
His is a legacy in tourist traps,
conspiracies that took him out,
tattoos someone else lives to regret.
All those well-intentioned lies that I myself romanticize,
believably enough to pass as love songs.
With more than one man on one knee,
it never stops amazing me
how easily the heart hears what it wants to.
Said the man who pissed the river,
if it's owning up you're after,
there's no mystery how the *** inside you burst.
I'd have a lot of nerve to go
feigning shock and outrage,
if I'd been my example I'd be worse.
That part of you that feels alive is wired and can't be
severed from the ***age seeking part of you that runs it.
Just don't embrace it with a vengeance before you've even
shaved with a razor that you bought with your own money.
Said the man who pissed the river,
if it's owning up you're after,
there's no mystery how the *** inside you burst.
I'd have a lot of nerve to go feigning shock and outrage,
if I'd been my example I'd be worse.
Every single story,
flamehouse,
purgatory,
playlist,
skirts,
the payouts,
anyone from his loins might collect.
His is a legacy in tourist traps,
conspiracies that took him out and
tattoos someone else lives to regret.