4. Voice And Nothing More

I put my pants on two legs at once, like all the good ones.
I'm a goody-two-shoes, but only ever wear one. What?
And with regard to my vulgar vernacular...
Some sentimental shit.

Head first into the hunter's belt.
I know he has some lashings in store for me, I know,
but he won't come down, from his
high-time, star-life style.

They convince us it's perfect,
tranquil to exist on their plain:
voice and nothing more!
It's not quiet in space! No, it's not calm!
The heavens scream of great treacheries,
and the wind whispers in shame having to touch its emptiness.

I'll peddle my filth to any side of the downtown run-around.
If the strychnine scandal is too much too handle, well fuck!
And what about our vulgar vernacular?
Our voices don't mean shit!

This temple was compromised long before I disgraced its door.

Head first into the hunter's belt.
I know there are some lashings in store for me, I know,
but I'll be able to sleep at night;
not on my raw, torn back,
but what would I gain from staring into the heavens?

Why would I ever want to stare into the heavens?