Writeoffs

Doubles down in a border town
Frankie's out on the graveyard shift
Bury your bones either side of the line
If you ever wanna catch his drift
Carmen spilled all over the server
From the barstool where she sat
Ticked off, with an empty bottle
And nobody worth throwing it at

You'll find Frankie in a Panama hat
Somewhere on the road down the line
He's ranting frantic nowadays
Met a sort of a spook of a kind
Carmen's on her best behavior
In sixty days she gets released
Sold her soul to fill that hole
She's gonna wanna buy back a piece

Your cup runneth over with drippings
From the bottom of heart and soul
Vague distant godlings gnaw the  linings
Vena cava just another worm-hole
Your medulla oblangata
A breadstick for the dipping sauce
Dip your face, disregard the taste
The cost writes off the loss

It's quite a tricky business, this
Balance that flirts with the soul
Kneepads and a wafer
Eternity on a holy roll
Delusions due exceed payments received
Wherein collections underwrite
We're so often overrated
Or at least miscaculated
Appearing as we do angelic in our flight

From children of the wayward priests
Sons of Ishmael, Son of Sam
To the petulant children of the Beast
Wife of the Son of a Preacher Man
Hometown prophets are rejected
By anarchists and nihilists
He's just a taxi driver
She's just a hair stylist

Your cup runneth over with drippings
From the bottom of heart and soul
Vague distant godlings gnaw the  linings
Vena cava just another worm-hole
Your medulla oblangata
A breadstick for the dipping sauce
Dip your face, disregard the taste
The cost writes off the loss

Frankie tipped his hat to Carmen
Carmen tipped her hand to him
Forever's a myth in the borderlands
Seems cheaper to purchase a whim
Frankie left his hat on the nightstand
Carmen left her dignity
Nobody knows, nobody sees,
Nobody cares when the ride is free

Sons of bitches, the sons of gods
Sons of the Bastard King
Prepare fantastic feasts for you
In the end it doesn't mean a thing
Sons of the Pedophile Prophet
See to it that you have your place
False Prophet accords a very strange Word
It's a vacuum in a worm-hole in space

Your cup runneth over with drippings
From the bottom of heart and soul
Vague distant godlings gnaw the  linings
Vena cava just another worm-hole
Your medulla oblangata
A breadstick for the dipping sauce
Dip your face, disregard the taste
The cost writes off the loss

 © John Kennan 4-26-19