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#1
I’m a mistress of disguise
I fall asleep in my bed of lies
To the pulsing heartbeat of city drums
And wheezing sound of tattered lungs
Torn and ruptured from rib to spine
From bearing with such wretched crime
Which seeps from every tear and pore
From every scrape and gash and sore
Caused by always wanting more.
Satisfaction is always such a chore.
Yes, I am the queen of disgrace
I make my bed of fetid lace
To flat the furrows of father time
And cover the evidence of our grime
Spewed and splattered ‘cross art and glory
From start to end of our short story
Which forged inside earth’s gracious womb
Has now become a "privileged" tomb
That we still view as some costume.
Yet ignorance is the real garment we assume.
I’m a mistress of disguise
I fall asleep in my bed of lies
To the pulsing heartbeat of city drums
And wheezing sound of tattered lungs
Torn and ruptured from rib to spine
From bearing with such wretched crime
Which seeps from every tear and pore
From every scrape and gash and sore
Caused by always wanting more.
Satisfaction is always such a chore.
Yes, I am the queen of disgrace
I make my bed of fetid lace
To flat the furrows of father time
And cover the evidence of our grime
Spewed and splattered ‘cross art and glory
From start to end of our short story
Which forged inside earth’s gracious womb
Has now become a "privileged" tomb
That we still view as some costume.
Yet ignorance is the real garment we assume.
