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
Then I'll score you a string ensemble

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

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
Cue the Bulgarian men's choir