CUT-THROAT

CUT-THROAT

Blindfold me and lead me upwards to the chamber of my doom,
A hanging judge, a swinging noose, a waiting burial tomb.
You will claim this song's too somber to merit a reply,
And lead me to the forest, leave me there to die.
But you are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.

Tie my wrists and tie my ankles oh so very tight,
And swing your noose beneath my neck, the periphery of my sight.
Mock me with your promises and your lies of recompense,
Then slay me like a dragon, oh fond one with your death mints.

You are surly, you are evil, though you wear your coat of fur,
And you surely must remember how you used to sit and purr,
And praise me your lone wordsmith in a land of deaf and dumb,
You are cold and merciless and my blood it coats your tongue.

I cannot swim against your tide, my breast stroke it cannot sustain,
Jab your scissors in my eyes and watch the aqueous humor rain.
Take me underneath your wing, for I cannot speak and I cannot sing.
Shoot your cannon in the air and taunt me with your wheelchair.
I am shuffling, I am lame, I can't remember my own name.
You are callous, you are cut-throat, you're the one to blame.

Tell me I am hateful, tell me I am cruel,
But I cannot any longer stay to be your motley fool,
Blinded by the lessons in your sordid little school,
Sinking in your quicksand, your muddy perilous pool.

Blindfold me and torture me with your chains and with your whips,
Taunt me like a dominatrix with your bloodshot little hips.
You will say I am too somber, but your lips they curl and lie,
You are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED