Silent in his dark room full of promises.
He waits, drinking interminably, thinking alone.
Growing colder inside, the passion fades like stars aging in the limelight.
Sitting and growing older, more set in his ways.
It's night after night of constant plays.
Running through corridors, striking fast, making tracks.
Sinister waterfront warehouses hiding secrets of past, present, and future.
Absolute bliss in the knowledge it's done.
What he came for has happened.
Where he's going is glum.
Depression sets in over love lost and gone.
The light that he was drawn to is hidden away.
A place he can't reach, by his doing and device.
The mechanism inside goes tick tock.
Extraneous noise vibrates in the most unpleasant way.
A baby's cry sounds like the devil at work.
And he's afraid on the bus of what he wants to do to the slut in the skin tight yellow dress.
He wants to cut her down, like an awkward antelope separated from the herd.
And do what he wants with nothing held back.
There in the courtyard, the yard filled with debris.
It's not him I see when I open my eyes.
But he's watching from a distance.
Finalizing his plans.
And the mayor is running, his face is deadpan.
The CIA thought they could swing it today.
But instead they found that there was no play.
In consequence we brought all the ammo we could.
And in the end, the ammo was wood.