Platinum Bald Bob
Washing the Avensis for the infinite time,
He keeps his hands moving to block out his crimes.
The paint it has worn to a translucent sheen,
His bald eagle cranium now a blinking machine.
Sunglasses in light, sunglasses in dark,
The front of the line, the flicker and spark.
Wayward with anger and a bottle of red,
The gritting of teeth and the scar on his head.
Dreams with marines, of wretched guts,
Marching in time, and a thousand deep cuts.
Berserker in action as he`s hunting the dog,
The howling is audible but only to God.
The wind and the cannibal are one and the same,
Which world is he living in? Who can he blame?
The rescue was a failure, the cheap red was spilt,
Across his bald forehead and down through the hill.
The bodies they rolled, but not all at once,
Some legs followed arms and all in a bounce.
Now survivors are guilty, the whys and the wailing,
But reason is missing, for all those remaining.
Towards the deep pit, the lifeless go bundling,
And still through the cosmos, our blue dot goes tumbling.
Now back at the base with tears running heavily,
This car it seems dirty, this car needs a reckoning.
The waxing and waning will never complete,
There is never an end, see, look there a streak!
The rat-a-tat-tat still rumbles along,
The refuse is lifted and the man he goes down.
Now seeing the grime on mud-flap below,
If someone sees this then the sergeant will blow!
Through the rubbing and scrubbing, the first coat reflects him,
The bleeding has stopped, the bullets deflecting.
The visage he sees, say thirty years passed,
No sign of the squadron or sound of a blast.
This car, it is filthy, a disgrace to its kind,
Rather than ownership, I`d claim to be blind.
Watching for mines and careful to step,
He moved to the bonnet and quietly wept.
He keeps his hands moving to block out his crimes.
The paint it has worn to a translucent sheen,
His bald eagle cranium now a blinking machine.
Sunglasses in light, sunglasses in dark,
The front of the line, the flicker and spark.
Wayward with anger and a bottle of red,
The gritting of teeth and the scar on his head.
Dreams with marines, of wretched guts,
Marching in time, and a thousand deep cuts.
Berserker in action as he`s hunting the dog,
The howling is audible but only to God.
The wind and the cannibal are one and the same,
Which world is he living in? Who can he blame?
The rescue was a failure, the cheap red was spilt,
Across his bald forehead and down through the hill.
The bodies they rolled, but not all at once,
Some legs followed arms and all in a bounce.
Now survivors are guilty, the whys and the wailing,
But reason is missing, for all those remaining.
Towards the deep pit, the lifeless go bundling,
And still through the cosmos, our blue dot goes tumbling.
Now back at the base with tears running heavily,
This car it seems dirty, this car needs a reckoning.
The waxing and waning will never complete,
There is never an end, see, look there a streak!
The rat-a-tat-tat still rumbles along,
The refuse is lifted and the man he goes down.
Now seeing the grime on mud-flap below,
If someone sees this then the sergeant will blow!
Through the rubbing and scrubbing, the first coat reflects him,
The bleeding has stopped, the bullets deflecting.
The visage he sees, say thirty years passed,
No sign of the squadron or sound of a blast.
This car, it is filthy, a disgrace to its kind,
Rather than ownership, I`d claim to be blind.
Watching for mines and careful to step,
He moved to the bonnet and quietly wept.