I feel better than I would if i'd just begged for more time,
that is no kind of life line to be hanging on,
with your eye half behind your head,
waiting and waiting for the day of the dead,
this is no better than the day that we'd said,
when we waited for corn to pop,
but there were roaches instead,
and we bleed from our sores,
with our feet running red.
I feel better than I would if i'd just begged for you,
to come out from behind curtains, out into the sun,
lent me a handgun and a shoe lace,
so I could run through the apocalypse until my wick was done,
and then I could swing between the door frame,
dreaming of what never had become.