Dead Drunk, and Writing Till Wrung(a lullaby)

The only time when it’s good,

the time when it’s bad.

the time when you’re locked up sick in my head.

leaven heathen like bread gone straight to my hip,

gone to heaven, I’m sick a path of gin now I’m dead.

Oh, pathogen I’m mussed you say in my head.

Of gin I’m fucked up. It’s all in my head.

Sung like a song for my burial tread.

Sing it long like a little boy trumped Jack of club.

Trumped of little, but large like the sun gleaming large,

And the shadows lay sick in my head, my head,

And the shadows lay sick in my head.

I’m not fit for public ingestion

No worldly direction I’m

Sitting, Lord drunk in my bed, my bed.

My thoughts wrenched pain sewn in my mattress, alone.

Sick thought thick like brick in my head.

Sick thick thought baked till the drunkard me belie in my head.

Till sick belie me a drunk to my bed.