He swears he means well as he drills in me details of himself. I fall as he explains how I remind him of someone he knew. Feet spread apart and closing in, the old man calls me his son. Crawling down the lane as fast as my hands can go, he corners me into a shadow spitting the dregs of sympathy, cheap wine and cigarettes. Holding my neck I assure him that we’ve never met at the top of my lungs. Choke him with his tie and kicking for my life. His head meets the asphalt. A bottle rolls from his coat. He’s humming a tune that he knows, preaching note for note to balance his heart.
Lyrics submitted by count orlock