There’s no comfort in the future, there’s no justice in this world.
Little reason to take solace, as we watch the shit-show burn.
Too enslaved to voice our protest, but convinced we led good lives.
We’re worthless ledger entries, in Peter’s book for Peter’s eyes.
When I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, don’t shed a tear nor cry.
If I left without pain an’ suff’rin’, then it was
A good/nice day/time to die.
Life ain’t all beer ‘n’ skittles, as we’re pushed an’ herded ’round.
Each youthful day is rushin’ past, free fallin’ to the ground.
Tryin’ to please all ‘n’ sundry, no time to spit or take good stead.
Popes piously demand more, have we not cast enough bread?
Those with faith in a single God, are cursed to believe in Hell.
But this place here is purgatory, can’t you fuckin’ tell?
Tired of talkin’ to the stone deaf, tired of preachin’ to the choir.
Watch my words go up in smoke as I stoke my funeral pyre.
©29.12.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman
Watch my words go up in smoke, stoked from my own funeral pyre.
Watch my words go up in smoke, stokin’ my own funeral pyre.
But this here an’ now is far worse, can’t you fuckin’ tell?
Whether Peter’s book confirms this, we’ll all find out when we die.
I’ll save my words for later, after my own funeral pyre.
Too enslaved to voice our protest, but convinced we played our part,