Kingpins knocked down by the bowling ball,
Dead men shooting from the trees.

How can we claim to see love at all,
when we can't feel the breeze?

I don't understand the live wire's dance.
But then, neither did Mark.

Walt Disney stumbling drunk down the corridor,
thinking up his latest theme-park.

Who cares when God will see his next Cabaret?
I murdered King Louis III.

When washing sheets just doesn't give you kicks,
try at least to remember the word.

Rack-room dollar bills burning down the house,
warm embers rolling off the roof.

A celtic scottish man writing to a louse,
a team player nowhere near aloof.

I can't breathe with all this air surrounding me,
smothering my creativity.

I cannot wonder why I live to die to serve,
I'm dead already now,

so why'd the union swerve?