Soapbox

 

False praise: as good as rope to wide-eyed youth tortured with hope

and all the ghosts that came before all signed the walls of toilet tours.

The inkwell’s dry; the stairwell bleeds.

Your restless hand’s so hard to read.

So let’s arrange a midnight meet with a howling wolf and 5 punk beasts.

We are all lonely; we’re all strange.

I’m half in love and half deranged for everything I’ve ever thought has already been thought…

Piano players paid in tips, at downtown bars they’re turning tricks

A smile hid behind your lips.

The city slang still makes me sick.

We found heaven in a blinking eye

The long dole queue down Denmark St.’s an irony not lost on me

I’ll wear my fancy suit today just to claim my JSA

I’ll be the hand that stills your wrist.

Fresh lipstick, lost without a kiss all painted Pepto-Bismol pink

You said I’d be fine… you’re a liar… We found heaven in a blinking eye

And now our future sure looks bleak. Love’s not bespoke so let’s not speak.

I’m tired of waiting for my luck to change

We’re still all lonely, we’re still all strange.

And you once said that all youth dies,

that all youth dies with its hands tied

You kick in the front door as I pick the lock,

Young love’s screaming from a soapbox