Oh, I thought you were dead.

Far too many cigarettes.

You lie in bed, the split ends curled around your head
eyes closed, mouth open, arms and brain of seething lead.
A place where they all know your name and every song sounds the same;
One day you’ll fall apart and smokes and beer will take the blame.
Fill the missing gaps and cracks with things they’ve said behind your back
as they raise their glasses, bow their heads and vow to cut the slack,
but we’ve all come a bit too close and felt the rope around our throats
and we reassure ourselves that everything was all a hoax:
A tribe of strange assorted folks who tell a bunch of vile jokes,
All the pretty girls are drunk and the boys like boys instead.
We raise the flag above our heads and praise the lord the queen is dead.

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