yeah, it’s pretty empty, isn’t it?
the glass propped in your hand?
like your screams lost to the night…
welcome to the wasteland.
the wine is gone, just like yourself,
all trapped somewhere inside,
remembered only when terror grips,
and stabs you from behind.
child’s play and tax returns
are the remnants of your life
lost to the wasteland
and as salary for your wife.
but hey, who cares, you’ve got your health,
and plenty of insurance,
you know, just in case that lightning struck,
and left you paying for deceit’s assurance.
so this is the wasteland,
it’s somewhere you belong,
free to scream, to cry, complain,
…a place i won’t last long.