• To Another Son,
    Carving bones from little trinkets sprawled
    On the wood, cut from evergreens and pine
    Build myself a man in my imperfect image.
    Just to watch it suffer. Easies my pain slightly more
    No wrong impressions for a repetitive liar such as I
    My sins are there all there for every prying eye to see.
    Death, however is another name I care not to speak
    Across the cars and back alley boulevards, broken clocks lay asleep
    Well you count me amongst them or am I spared a trivial decline
    To Another Son,
    my only son, I pray you find this private message
    One I often kept locked away upstairs in the basement
    Where all good souls I meet along my journeys come to die
    Don’t consider me liar but I... I have heard: I’ve heard a rumor.
    A rumor from a little birdie, told me,

    “the weather in Hell is real nice this time of year. “