Interlude

In your wardrobe there are a lot of stripes

But what seems to be missing

Are the skeletons

Of the people

That you do not like

You've contemplated on how you'd make them scream

And in your head you've fed them meat from two-thousand-and-three

Why don't you act, why don't you carry it through

I guess that's just the fantasies of a stay at home psychopath

Or this world that's making you fucking mad

The crinkle of glass

On your old tarmac

The creaking of wood

Screams in pain like it should

The glow from your lamp

Shrouds the cold and the damp

You know of the way

That you go about your day

And your weapon of choice

Is the lightness of your voice