my curtain's flecked with angel's shit

ol' cobain played cricket with a mouthful of pills
and a sackful of breathing bills
he said i took those coz my stomach's hurtin'
we said dont touch 'em coz you'll be dead before mornin'

ol' cobain's checkered flannel shirt, ripped at its elbows
my curtains flecked with angel's shit, flipped at tomorrows

before him metals and grind cores are nothing but non-keyboards moanings
after him petals and wind choires are everything that choke my meanings

and i'm still hoping to hold my can
to answer you with a yes and a can
when deep down inside its all a mess
that never ends




mampir di sini.