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Southcott
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The October Tradition
And this is fleeting,
This sick, sickness I'm seeking,
With tire tread tired eyes,
A crooked smile,
You'd love, to defile.
Don't let me down,
With my ear to the ground,
I can hear the earth sigh,
At the sight of your insides,
As you hide behind the lies that
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you so desperately tell.
Fists pummeling like cruise ships,
And motorcycle teeth,
That are humming between
our breaths, And rest,
To the beat,
Of these simple streets.
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