The Reckoning of Wiltshire Lamar
Sit next to me, I beckon ye
it's time you knew the truth
your father died a destitute cobbler
but you'll never fill his shoes.
I know your name is known worldwide
and wide your wallet's grown
on file you've shed your father's name
but it's scorched upon your bones.
The pub your father made his home
was J.R. Phinnicky's
in a flurry of drool, fell off his barstool
and twas there you were conceived.
He bedded a wench between the boots
the floor was slick with beer
when he climbed to his feet he found a receipt
and a baby boy to rear.
In you he found a wickedness
that he, himself, did lack
you would lie, you would cheat, you'd steal, snub, and sneak
you would grin while you stabbed in the back.
What little coin your father kept
was stowed where he thought safe
but the lock was hacked off, his fortune was lost
and his son wasn't seen again.
With stolen gold, you forged your throne
while the old man shivered and died
you rose to fame, he died cursing your name
couldn't afford the coins for his eyes.
I've searched for years to find you here
your debt is delinquent already
I'm armed with a blade, and I'm happy to say
tonight I shall be collecting.
The Ballad of Raymond Strange

As the fog lies, as the dog dies
there's a tale I can tell,
of a blameless young lover
and his trip down to Hell.
Among the beer stains and the frost panes
young Raymond would bide,
for the girl from the harbor
who oft met his eye.
She was scarce in the bars in the
harbor of late,
and as Raymond was aging,
he grew desperate.
He came to Estates that read,
Honeymoon Suite,
from his treebranch he was freelance
to her cold destiny.
She'd found a huckster, who'd seduct' her
with his name and his pence,
he would catch her in rapture
with poor Raymond's audience.
As the rain fell, Raymond's eyes swelled
and he leveled the gun,
at the lover of the one girl
he ever could love.
At the moment he was closing
the trigger back home,
the iron of the firearm
invoked a strike from the storm.
The lightning burst the pine tree
down the spine to the ground,
and young Raymond was halved in the
charred, twisted mound.
All the priests from the streets
tried to haul off his clay
but the Despised and his new bride said,
'Bury as he lays.'
In the morning, when it's pouring
there's a mangled old tree
where the bones lie 'neath a gray sky
where the garbage shall seep.
It's the lost soul of a poor bloke
with his name shall decay,
but I'm standing over your grave,
Raymond Strange.

I saw a guy drown
in a vat of honey
when I worked for the good people
at Honey-Nut CheeriosĀ®
By the time they finished fishing him out
with what looked like an oversized
butterfly net
the honey had crystalized in his lungs
and most of his trachea
The Good Lord speaks in train crashes
and the tones of telephones without ears
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