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One free end bound his ankles, also bound his knees |
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He had left a trail of blood that led into the trees |
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He lay beneath a broken branch face down in the grass |
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No mason or bricklayer he, a trowel was in his ass |
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They found spray paint in his sinus, cotton in his ears |
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His cheeks showed little slugstyle tracks that dried there from hs tears |
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The morning that they found him dead the sun was shining bright |
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It cast a shadow of the rope that he had tied so tight |
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The shadow fell across the grass, across his filthy clothes |
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It fell across the shit-caked pants he wore over his hose |
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He lay beneath a broken branch face down in the grass |
|
No mason or bricklayer he, a trowel was in his ass |
