Why that bum thought the name a good idea,
heaven knows. I played drums, a low profile,
yes, I was no frontman, no stage singer.
Christ, I was practically hidden, the fear
rests behind those cymbals in my childhood,
in high school, I had dreams to run the mile,
master paradiddles, be a ringer,
someone who'd make it big, in my own field,
only I didn't know myself, the good
nurtured the bad, I became a lost soul.
Punk was a role to play, and an outlet,
until it died before we tried, the goal
needless to say was sound, music, our bet,
kindling for beach bonfires, nothing to wield.
Sick in the head, I lost my way, all hope
incessantly drained from my mind, my heart
licked, crushed, the wheels of industry kicked butt,
exactly when I sold my kit to cope
not with drug addiction but credit cards,
cash rules everything around me, my start
exactly then to clean up the deep cut.
When I was in a band, I was not lost,
as we watched out for each other, the shards
still cut me to the quick, such is failure.
Born from ashes, I wrote, and word was bond,
only thirty years later, words can cure,
nurture a nostalgia for what was fond,
despite my lost dreams, music was the cost.
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