by Shayne Edwin Pruett
Clap your hands and let the blood run dry,
The beauty of crime is you never have to answer why.
Don't let the fuckers stare holes into your soul,
Let them go, let them breed, set them free of fire and coal.
Get past this Saturday night romance,
With the who's who dressed up for the ballroom dance.
Everything covered but judging eyes,
Letting everyone see their knowledge of demise.
Your portrait of karma looks a hell of a lot different,
Than their views on drama.
Grant them relief, let them sleep through the night,
Wipe your ears clean of what you have heard.
Let them dream, let them stir,
Until they hear you clapping, walking, running down the hallway.
There must be some other way,
Give yourself to them but not before you make them remember what they've done.