And I’ll keep this voice alive underwater.
Far away from cellphone hiss and cannon fodder.
And all you fuckers won’t be missed,
nor your martyrs in uniform.
Not even Christ will forgive what you did,
and I’ll be glad when your number is called.
And it’s a strange thing that it may never be called.
It was the easel that painted the throne.
And I swear I won’t look away when you stare at me.
A hundred to one I’ve seen the end to your means;
You’ve nothing to teach me.
Except how to feign a sense of control
On a burning blind carousel.
At least you look good poised on that pole
while the waterline is rising up.
And it’s a strange thing that you’re so ready to drown.
It was the easel that painted the crown.