Sitting In Rundle mall, See the silver balls standing shiny and tall, Watch the people go about, Their soulless lives, Chasing invisible dreams, Dead from the soul-killing knives, See the businessmen, And fresh-pressed suits, See the crazy yobbos, And their black bitch boots.
Sitting on the bench, Just Sam and meself, After buying the cookies, Right off the shelf. We see the pigeons, the people, The bold little spoggies, Don’t see any froggies or the Mighty South Aussies. Chowing down on cookies, Like a couple of rooki
How can you not know what to do, When it’s nothing complicated, Just a matter of the heart? It’s written very clearly, As the angels come and save me, The task of burning out.
It’s nothing of the science, Of another broke alignment, Haunting to send an error to the heart, As you once more make it all frustrating.
There’s no style of writing here. The taste of a broken tear, Drips down to the ink and on the severeness, Of this broken alignment. It’s not one other blind sentence, Choking at the splendidness of its cre
Wild dances in the moonlight by beautiful young Witches, Red sleeping dragons, and rooms with no switches, Loose fitting clothing, and red braided string, These are a few of my favorite things,
Smoke consumed spaces and free standing fire, Visions and faces that speak my desire, Hanging pressed flowers, and daggers that sing, These are a few of my favorite things,
When the stake burns, When the lions bite, When I'm feeling bad,
I simply remember my favorite things, And then I don't feel so bad.
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