Mongrel
Sun is poison
Hours you've been gone
You are frightening me
Brush on the lawn
The order of all things
You're not even fooling yourself lacing your shoes so tight
I can hardly vouch for myself while my hands are untied
"It's a crime of passion" you whisper with each blow
Suddenly I'm learning where the sick dogs go
It's the order of all things, so-
Buddy, I think you're sick
Buddy, I think you need some help
I often speak in second person
Because I frighten myself