Tell me that I am too late
To help them misappropriate
The words, the gold, the chocolate hearts
The tears, the names of a private part
In a film about some love and hate
I cannot more than decorate
A missing limb or three or four
We found them outside by the door
I cannot believe they came to us
Withholding love and rubber ducks
Existenialist thought, mountains of dew
To many things, please, something new?
Okay, this soap is going down
We cannot fake another frown
But to end it all, so we can begin
I slowly file the head off a pin.
Madness, darkness, Bloody Screwed
Oh Well, Thank God for being crude.
Before, a man went down the mine
But now all it takes is a bottle of wine.
Copyright © - Duncan N. Cunningham - 8th June 1998