40 scrapes
40 scrapes
40 scrapes
40 scrapes
40 scrapes
A cat with nine tails rears
and claws my back.
The wielder a legionary,
a King, Lord, or a mourner?
Stage left, stage right, dirty road
The passion players missed their mark
And the cross is bare,
No great turnout today.
The redeemer always draws the biggest crowds,
featured players are lucky to draw blood.
And when the redeemer, he bows
the mourners rush like a flood.
The applause comes heavy
when he bears the stigmata
'Course it's all makeup
And a bit of drama.
And I'm the imposter, a fakir
I'm in the street
making 40 bets that the dead got it made.
Kings and Queens in flooded holes
whose chests rise and fall when we're not looking.
The crow in the village square
"It's your hand that grips the leather"
while I'm convinced that people'd show
were it not for the weather.
What I do feel is what I believe does exist
The pain, which is true.
