Where the dirt road narrows there’s an old garage

Full of trash, with a pit open in the floor,

Empty cans, cigarettes, Hustlers in garbage,

Till the night a fiery furnace fills the door.

The beast cannot say anything,

And the bone man with no eyes hears you swing,

And your grandpa preaches, “Wait for the king,”

And the Buddha winks and jokes, “Do not cling”.

Would you like to climb up and hang on a rope,

At the roof of the gym where you wish you fell?

Or would you singe the thread of the insect’s hope

In the mass pulling you down into the well?

Mother sings she knows what you think,

And your father yells, “Don’t pull on that string,”

And the bully mocks, “You’re weak and you stink,”

And the prophet cries out “Death has no sting.”

Demons judge from their niche in the red-hot walls.

The rats chew through your bond to the pendulum.

Rip the cord born a bitch in a place grace falls.

Don’t forget to let go just before the end.

Doctor prescribes, “Go see a shrink,”

And the maiden blinks back tears when you sink,

And the Dutch boy laughs with you on the brink,

And the angel whispers, “Ask for your wings.”