Take another pull on the glass and live a bit more loudly.
Tell them the story of falling down the side of Atwood,
With no one within twenty miles and surviving in spite,
Cold for anesthetic, crawling the first mile with no feel.
Better than eating oysters with the others and talking
About dead singers while the blondes blind one another,
Trying to sleep with every man who talks on his cell,
I swear you should hike them all there and leave them.
But you. You stumble into the back finding a couple
Copulating to Neil Young and fumbling with the door,
A shadow of the former lion, running scared now, sick
And tired of trying, dying, dying yes I said dying,
Lying to your soul, looking to the bowl, smoking life
Away for lack of effort, and here I still think you
A man, a lion, still want your hand in mine to live,
What fun we had then and tonight, but you slip and fall,
Mumbling damn it all, damn it all, and I lift you back
Dragging you to the bed and lay you down softly
Whispering to your dull head it’s alright babe, its
Alright. Wanting you to fight. Wanting you to.