• Here's another note to self,
    so soon forgotten on the shelf,
    to keep in company with my thoughts,
    of blackened lungs and bloody spots,
    of times that fell away to rust,
    that blew away like so much dust.
    Here's an anthem for the dawn,
    an inbred child of devil spawn.
    And in the room left long ago,
    the photographs of fallen snow.
    Place to die in fetal grace,
    cast aside like so much waste.
    There before, and there again,
    we've come full circle back to sin.
    So when our saints come marching back,
    we'll sell our souls for poisoned smack.
    And here it ends or yet renews,
    I've lost my heart, but found the Blues.