somebody broke in but all that was missing were the polaroids, the scene of the crime could be anywhere, at any time, and i'm always salivating about the maniac responsible, i, i know that to attack is merely the desire to free oneself from infatuation and there's a thin line between a love tap and murder with a blunt instrument, that a sharp stick in the eye kills the devil in the soul, every time and night after night those hollow screams echo out through deserted parking lots, that paper oasis littered with lottery dreams.. and i'm always lacerating myself with memories and demented visions of some woe begotten messenger of the lord who's now living down at the hangover hotel where everybody's living hand to mouth, trying to get ahead, but shit a quick jaunt down to the corner store to pick up a forty of colt and 45 a fifth of a jack, a bottle of aspirin, half a dozen condoms, and a carton of cigarettes, will bring you down real hard by about 50 bucks and all then all you're left with is your dreams yeah you'll be dreaming amongst drunks, yeah, dreaming.. remember the way it used be, oh the way it used to be, shit, the way it still is, dirt cheap deeds sloppily executed on sheetless mattresses, petty crimes of passion bringing secrets to the surface with blood, alcohol.. the scene of a crime could be anywhere, at any time..
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