In the days before the poet was born
I was everywhere but not within
My switchblade hiding in my boots so worn
My mind was hellish bent on mortal sin
~
I was everywhere but not within
Running with the wolves seemed the thing to do
My mind was hellish bent on mortal sin
Youngish rebels with fertile fields to sow
~
Running with the wolves seemed the thing to do
In all the endless summer nights we raved
Youngish rebels with fertile fields to sow
I sought but never found the thing I craved
~
In all the endless summer nights we raved
My switchblade hiding in the boots so worn
I sought but never found the thing I craved
In the days before the poet was born
~
Mike Carson
2-16-2008
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