Grudge Music

Deaf, blind granite block

Content to graze with familiar stock

Local lard, not an English black

We don't venture into the fog

Homeward bound and gagged not twenty steps from the door

Dispensable as cooks at sea or journalists sent to war

No one found me spellbinding

No one offered me a drink

But by crippled hands at the potters wheel

I was given shape and sex appeal

Sent to work the graveyard shift at Heaven's JDC

Legend to the peasants there

Lights had caught me unaware

I've wandered into your graces

So how do I get out?

I want out

I want out

I want out

It's been quiet for too long

But pompous phrases and alarms can't help you now

And every pervert outside of every fence

Has had his fill of your kids, he's clocking out

Such indecisive crusaders

A martyr made into a scenic blur

Lookout into a left behind, what wounded pride

No one finds me spellbinding

No one's buying me a drink

I've been fed to the lions

Left high and dry by the eighth circle of Hell

Where are the spoils?

I want the ticker tape parade

Damn these filthy rats