Withered and wicked was the prince of the skunks

God damn his reputation in the pubs of the drunks

They knew him locally as the holder of the bar

His legend ran deeper than the depth of his scars

For which he had many


On the stage at the piano he pressed his keys

One by one, black and white, a fucked-up melody

Bewildered and confused, he was the minor freak

He used every musical quip to defend his sheep

For which he had none


Hat covering his eyes, stage light shielding nothing

Lyrics full of lies causing lips taught from bluffing

His life was far weirder than his fingers could say

But not one man could know what he loved or why

And neither could he


He sings to old whores, broken strings, and beaten lyrics

No shoes, the mad artist spoke in vitriolic polemics

People in the pub followed the movement of his jaws

But had no idea what a fucking vitriolic polemic was

Not one word


He coughed and laughed in the face of the gods

Beer in his veins and static in is heart

The breakdown of reason

Where are my shoes?

What is this mess?


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