The Long Bus

Pushing through to make way
For a flash that glimmers small
You hush every thought I’m provoking
That must make you feel real tall

Running full throttle
Through sharp blades of grass
And it ends with the dirt that grows a fence

You ran around with your skin paint
The one that won’t graft at all
The flies on the wall, are they fucking?
Because I know you drew them all

Cum, spit, and fondle
Broken glass
And it ends with the blood that’s on your hands

I’ve seen the bottom
That you’ve thrown me under
I am what I am,
and I’m on your hands