Curtains

That bass drum beating into my brain its beautiful

And ritual and contractual and unconstitutional and masculine and frozen.

Frank and dragging it's good name into the concrete cloth of disrobed judges pledged to dull there edges for some satisfaction.

But we can't get no satisfaction.

We get retraction infraction distraction and anything but a useful reaction.

The letters written on our skulls spell it in a language our parents spoke in secret.

We mauled death calling and left the fire burning.

Hung up on sleep and confronted with the horror that we we're never that deep.

Keep it, creep.