| The nomadic addict bites down on his wallet
|
| He buries his fingernails in the floor where he’s fallen
|
| His blood is freezing and his skin is on fire
|
| He’s twitching and wheezing and about to expire
|
| Yes this nocturnal colonel opens and closes his eyes
|
| It was bound to end up this way
|
| It comes as little surprise
|
| He’s covered in perspiration it soaks his sear sucker suit
|
| He wonders who in tarnation
|
| Put a scorpion in his boot
|
| Which one’a the sons of bitches
|
| Did this dastardly deed?
|
| He knew that some had it in for him
|
| But he never took heed
|
| He never listened to anybody
|
| Never took a word of advice
|
| He disowned his whole family and didn’t think twice
|
| His poor old mother
|
| Who failed to keep him from trouble
|
| Who knew just enough about Shakespeare to fill in a crossword puzzle
|
| He got tangled with Satanic actors at an impressionable age
|
| Who in his heart he knew were bastards
|
| But were flawless on stage
|
| They traveled all over the countryside
|
| Playing to sold out crowds
|
| Late at night he heard them making awful guttural sounds
|
| And he was making the same ones now
|
| Writhing in a pitiful heap
|
| He has no hope of surviving
|
| The scorpion got into him deep
|
| His mind is reeling
|
| His reality has collapsed
|
| Everything that has ever happened has been part of some elaborate trap |