and you'll be sting sick quick
I'm'a split your perspective in two
a wrist-flick, twist you into pretzels
dissect you 'cause I'm the tick-tick-tick
before synaptic potential goes boom
this trick, finger on the trigger you figure
I flunked drama,
I can't fake-laugh or force tears
another day another dollar
make that Four More Years
or eight, sixteen, thirty-two
a dirty few in the trenches
two kicking on the benches
ten tangled in the tension
almost palpable
yeah you could cut it with a knife
or just butter it with life
hunk of the guttermuck on both sides
some run from storms
other pluck up courage
end up fucked up, buried
in a rubble bubble, huddled up
with the dumb luck, some duck
others jump into the stirrups
with a click-click rattle of spurs
and some hurry up and quick-pick
others with lucky numbers worry