Rotting on the Vines

Are you wanting inspiration?
You spill your secrets on me
Then you tell me with a whisper
Of things that will never be

The Black Crowes

Are seeking inspiration?

Do you need a new sensation?

People walking around afraid to speak.

People about to freak.

Where are the good times.

Rotting on the vines.

Can’t you see the root.

No, you are already on mute.

It’s time to stand up.

Sup from the courage cup.

We are all walking a tight rope.

Listening to new propaganda dope.

Rights?  Hidden, out of sight.

It’s time to fight into the night.

They throw us some dough.

But the sleep walker does not crow.

So, bow to the snakes.

Soon you’ll drown in the lake.

Sit and stare at your new device.

They’ll serve you first, sliced and diced.

A delicacy of pain.

For the apocalyptic insane.



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