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?
Fuck.
Andrew Chapman / Author and Screenwriter 