Back to the Barroom
There’s an uncertain essence of a spun out drunken night
We play game show at the bar w/ the choosing
of the most fitting cocktail on the rocks
Another chance to exploit our unearthed issues
in a gin-drowned diatribe
The punk band mocks the animal audience
sausage packed into polyester irony
Spun out on a blissful Saturday
For the 4 hour ritual
Throwing darts at the head of my despair
Emboldening the half breed acts
Imagining the heuristic notions will explode
my dying sexuality
Halcyon flesh, witness the sun’s incest
Blinding lights of autumn’s fading spire
washed up mentions, half past noon
Dancing to the bird’s migration croon
Horror Sleaze Trash 