John Murry's new album A Short History of Decay on Latent Recordings is available now at wmcanada.lnk.t...
The par cans are blinding.
The devotion is fraud.
I’ll return when commissioned,
Prove them fools one and all.
The silence will follow,
All the scripted applause.
I’ll play the dead-weight:
Force every last curtain to fall.
Our days here are numbered.
I’ve forgotten how to do the math.
Still, I hear the clock ticking:
Turning present to past.
The winds cast no shadow.
Love drowns everything in its’ wake.
It ain’t hatred that kills:
It’s the need to escape,
God, I need the escape.
Get on with it, Judas,
Strike up a deal with your man.
The world at your fingers:
Walk away, cash in hand.
It’s already forgiven,
Though it can’t be forgot:
Every fool who tossed stones,
Each one casting lots.
They will promise you silver,
They will pay you only in lead.
For confusing the Books of The Law,
For The Book of The Dead.
Your own blade will forsake you.
Your own tongue will soon promise their lies.
Your own ghost will soon tell of
The blood in their eyes.
See: I knew I’d been hustled,
The moment I sat at the game,
The moment I looked at my cards,
Still I forged my own name.
Sold downstream by a redcoat,
Sold downstream by a ginger-bred man.
Everyone lawyer was laughing,
Until they pissed their pants.
I write these movies.
I right all of these scores.
Five thousand dollars,
Still you can’t kiss your whore.
Doesn’t buy nothing more.
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