I’d never cut my left hand off during the day and get back on my bike and turn pail and frail in fright but that’s what I do at night

I’d never send bullets at friends during the day in jest not in spite in game more than fight but that’s what I do at night

I’d never take life to the grave during the day and drop to the end face death and his breath yet make it seem trite but that’s what I do at night

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There’s no such thing as a fool-proof lesson, their legs always wobble by the end of the day

But the residue wafts in small puffs of smoke, the curdled remains of what wouldn’t relay

I’ve been invincible for damn near all my life, then again, I’ve never been tested

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Old, bitter man, you freely pawn off your worst-laid plans with grains of sand, thinking we like the taste while it’s funneling down our throats, and emptying out the space

I can tell an elder on sight, you’re less reliable than we were ever, a salty shell that’s never right.

Metal and gears, we claim progress is always success, to or so we guess, while we were getting burned, speeding past our common sense for diminishing returns.

I can tell an elder on sight, you’re more selfish than we were ever, a salty shell that’s never right.

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