I have two guns for lighting my cigarettes. One is double barrelled on is a six-shooter, I wanna call it a "revolver" but it doesn't revolve, it's a shame but you can't expect that much for $4.95.
I have a short attention span, no, I don't actually. But I crave constant stimuli or I get those blues from the phalanx of black dogs that trail me. They sometimes drop back and corners cause me to think I've shaken them from my trail, but then they start to catch up again and I'm struggling to keep abreast of their fog of, like they say; "the wailin' an' the gnashin' othateeth".
I'm running, but I feel like the wind s bin knocked outta me an i'm gaspin for a chestfulla air to get me just beyond their reach, just overthe next ledge, but tryin to keep my wits about me cos I can't risk fallin over any edge.
That'd be it, they'd all be upon me then and I'd succumb.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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