He's A Knockout

The sell-out has burn trails in his bedroom.
He contemplates burning his rent.
But he brings his lighter-fire to his
wanting lips and decides to just disappear.
Oh, in his future memoir he'll write of
his old uncle who said god damn right
he'd demand the death penalty
if some sick bastard did something
to his kids. Oh, he'd write, "Well uncle, what
if your kids had blood on their own hands?"


The passport smells much like a
thesis statement. The currency's shaped
like his eyes. And the fireman, he can't
help but ask, "Where are you plannin' on
going this time?" "I'm going for
sure where things disappear," he
replies, "Yeah, I'm crossing the state
line." Michigan, Michigan, you are
no longer mine.