The High Road Walker

 



A finer tongue is just vindictive like the ones that its condemning
much the way a sly attorney persecutes the knife in holding,
let the sinner cast his die and cash his chips on tips of felt,
see where all the colours lie and fade to mixed amalgam melt.

Drink and let the words converse amongst themselves within the stupor,
take a shot and win it big to make some sense of winning, super
massive in consumption like the center of our galaxy.
Lost within translations of the politics and fallacy

Of garbled true delusions that were brought upon the masters
of our kingdoms and the highlands, and the really seedy bastards.
No, we’re lowly as the tapeworm in its parasitic sapping
with its hooks and anchors digging, like the words that we’re entrapping.

We’re the bards of every acre, every mile to the sun
is life upon the high road when the low is on the run.
So let us play the fanfare, for the west was never pillaged
by the crooks and by the schemers who would take away our village.