Radio station in my head plays sad country songs
But only a thin static radiates from my lips
Resisting that natural current, with all my power
impeding my capacity to charge into the fray
Pale Moon face for which my fickle affection for
waxes and wanes on a monthly basis
Eye contact telepathy, boring thought the smoky medium
southbound birds, door-bound fixations, bad omens
Filibustered Committee meets for drinks, no progress
deaf to their hearts, confused by their loins
An impotent short haired Samson, shears still in hand
no songs this time, who's the jack-ass now?
Bound by every fiber in my being, by my enemies
a shapely “8”, the head of a lark, no bark, all bite
Flagons containing truth, drained for the courage within
amidst the warrior brothers, I wait in paper armor
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