Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough, they'll never stop their running
Gunning for their brothers
This house is a hostel, it is peaceful, but it's always emptying
Boys all want to be someone
Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar
Feeding the facts to false fires
Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire
(But I'll score your string ensemble)
I saw my son at seventeen, the shudders made projections on his naked frame
But now at twenty-five, he simply cannot stay away from the ketamine
With make-up on his sores, he spends an hour a day composing his own eulogy
Sometimes he sends me letters, but they're mostly garbled phrases and apologies
Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar
Feeding the facts to false fires
Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire
(Append a Bulgarian children's choir)

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