My heart hurt with the heat of an holy crusader,
An heinous honesty, hollowing out the horrorful hopes of heaven,
Leaving it empty like a squeezed out pen,
An eyeball beneath the heel of a boot,
These words and the truth,
All spent and repentless for their wild night of liquour and women
And useless sounds which other people call conversation.
Oh but better yet was the interpretation,
A fascinating insight into the revelation of our generation gap,
A fact is not a fact,
It is a thought which bounces back from
The edge of the universe’s black, finite and bitterly cruel crush.