He's a friend of a friend and every time I take a shit I can smell his breath. I met him at the salvage yard, he was pissing into the wind with a broken nose and a mug only a mother could love, I knew right away some guy had gotten sick of listening to him. He's weak, he'd never spent time inside yet he claims he's a leader, but who'd fallow someone who's never wrong.
That was my problem, I drank too much.
A tradition willed upon me accompanied by lack of judgement.
The sun burnt orange as it rose and the blood ran downhill, I was cuffed and knew where I was headed.
I'd been there before.
1 comment:
I wish could leave musical comments. When I read your stories I hear a soundtrack in my head. Is this a gift,or a curse,since I have no way to turn it off ?Sometimes the music is crap,sometimes it's "perf". I need to install a volume knob...
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