Crying out loud
Tearing a torrent out of one's throat
I guess you could call it sad
I guess, you could call the truth
What's left is not much
And much has left to be seen
In this world of warlocks
There's no such quiet

Shutting up loud
There's not much to be said
A torrent of truth has left my bed
I guess it was there all along
Thank you officer, don't be long
What's left isn't much
And so little to spare
Has left me, bollocks
And kindly privet

Would you be a dear and get me a drink
I might as well leave it and start to think
Think of my life
Think of her death
Think well so no one could speak

Roger, we found not a trace
Black curtains, dark urn, a photographed embrace
A small crying child is holding my hand
I guess it's the money
Thanks for your grief
Stooped over a crouch
To hide that I bare
A clever little hoax
And pleasurable mindset

Would you be a dear and get me a drink
I might as well leave it and start to smirk
Start over my life
Start over a death
Plan over for the next streak