Bobby Brenner was the first to meet his maker's end
from the heart of his enclave deep within a Bayou lagoon
as our moon caved in with shaded craters and split

yeah, we'll know soon,
this devil ...

was out on the mend.

While he targeted pointy fingers at the far off train
chugging through like gristle glistening on the tarry roads
with the maven of the albino crow ceased his game of peck and receive,
yeah, that's how the devil plays his game...

only to win.

To dwell in darkness of the morning while we sleep awake
each sound a gong of fury forsakes a will to escape
from the country side hiding a curried sunrise of
the memory of his mother as the lights dim down.
yeah, that's where it all went down,
this devil...

decided to wait.

No sounds could ravage all the ruins wrought by reeds of river streams
and steam rose from the estuary and baked his calloused feet
each victim's blood clot like coy fish in the middle of the Dead Red Sea.
"yeah, this blade shines for all damnation," he screamed.

look how he gleams,
look how he dreams that, in his mind, Bobby Brenner will always be a winner.


in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.
in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.
in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.