McPhail's Burning

Silence your razorblade tongue
Close your eyes; they're feathered
Because tears and vomit don't mix
And you would know the meanings of
Tongue in cheek
Or rather, fingers down throat
(It's all the same to the scale)
The pictures don't lie
And the dogs won't stop barking
Or were they friends?
(Never can tell with females)
This branding of self-worth smells
And stinks to hell of pity
And with this etch a sketch of a world
Who can tell if you're shaken or stirred?
The 'pick me, pick me' child at the back
Would love to answer that
But your fist is in your mouth
And you're gagging on the remains
Of him
(Of him?)
Dream on, babe
You're still on the scale
Eating's for the weak
And death...
Well that's one size fits all, my dear.