Mass Load

Bring what you got on to the man down there with his hand out the bars with a tin cup, he’s real scared. kept in the hole for many months for something like refusing to speak up, and while I cant sit still to save his soul, my pensions ringing jumps to remind me its not in my hand to play corrupt—by the way I don’t believe in bad luck. So I show you to him and don’t ask me to help, Ive made peace with it all now that I can play with my baby boys in the beach kelp, But inside I’ll always skitter some when I hear the pitter patter come down the hall from that poor boy leaning against the stone wall, but when it does, Ill hear my boys laugh and giggle some and sadly throw the man from my mind and let him slide out my ear terribly quietlike. There comes a time when calluses harden your insides, and when the day breaks you can turn your head and decide whether your insides will forgive your wretched kind. Either way Ill grow old and blind and without given the choice, except to open my eyes during this cold-shouldered piece of time, Ill find my self sulking through all the world’s unforgettable/ topfloor forgivable slime.