Well, I'm working on it.....
What do I say, what do I do. What do you mean that I'm asking a hundred year question? A century will teach me all about life, and all about strife and what it means to hold a knife. At the end I lose it all, no one will listen and no one will call. I get a soap box for the deaf, a podium for the blind, confined to remind who's already resigned.
All I need is time to stop and think, for all of my crimes there's a cop and a shrink, how long will I shrink into a time that I remember divine, along the vines pouring out from my spine I look for signs among swine enticed by thoughts more divine bathed in wine but still tasting only and simply of brine. Never knowing it's in front of me, forever for me to see inbred and fed so that I could be free; free from tragedy and misery, and the potpourri of the bourgeoisie. I still believe in things unseen, Mom, but thirteen was when the machine turned obscene and the sheen of all queens left me dead in ravines hating the routine offered me so serenely
Because a man with a mission is a missionary man, to one a choice is held the other has no choice of his cell or is it?_ That a missionary man in a cell is where the man with a mission wants to ring the bell and sell to us hell, like a rebel when he says farewell, watching bomb bays open and drop down a wishing well.