Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough
They'll never stop their running
Gunning for their brothers

This house is a hostel
It is peaceful, but it's always emptying
Boys all want to be someone

Haven't you heard?
I am a flightless bird
I am a liar, feeding facts to a false fire

If pathos is borne
Borne out of bullshit in formal attire
I'll score you a string ensemble

I saw my son at seventeen
The shutters made projections on his naked frame

Now at twenty-five
He simply cannot stay away from the ketamine

With makeup on his sores he spends an hour a day composing little eulogies

Sometimes he sends me letters
But it's mostly garbled phrases and apologies

But haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird
I am a liar, feeding facts to a false fire

If pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit In formal attire
Append the Bulgarian children's choir