I used to think that everything would make sense in the long run,
now I’m getting whipped around with some pistol gun,
hooded and bagged, tagged downtrodden,
I thought of you, yet you’ve probably forgotten.
Can I cope another day with you here?
Can I cope through beatings without drinking more and more beer?
Can I just unwind and see forward yet?
I’m not with you anymore.
I guess it’s what I get.
With the reputation I just try not to say a word,
high allegations of memories in my head,
I walk in shame day to day,
listening forcefully to everything they say.
Scarlet letter gets no better, made other men into ■■■■■■■ bedwetters.
Almost seven years under the knife,
don’t join the service,
don’t end your life.
Bitter and spoiled they say behind my back.
They bring pain to my chest like a heart attack,
Brought down low nearly beaten,
not another weekend-hope it’s not bad…
secretly, very sad.