The cattle flee their slaughter-house
In caravans of pink;
Sought in soot and speckled jet
The shadow hides in ink.

A fever pitch of screeching bats
Send eyeballs flailing free,
As the man of maddened thoughts
Is wondering who to be.

The bum who seems to mirror me
Is lost in hot free fall:
In coke and crystal meth he melts
To tickings on the wall.

A shotgun blast shatters past
A melon-headed fool
Who, in his haste to blame the gun,
Forgets it’s just a tool.

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