Every night I come home
To the screaming of the television
Something's up; something's not right
And all we could do is sit and breathe.
I am drowning in my own blood
Of blood-red conscience and deathly black
These cretins, petty creatures of dark -
Swirls of black and blood on canvass of guilt.
Eyes, beady eyes are watching
Yet, there's nothing there; there's nothing
Like dust that settles before light shines on them
And you see their pitiable forms clinging to air.
It's easy, it's so easy
To let go, to just let go
And give up...
And then shake your head and say:
"Hubaga ate oy."