I feel fear-li-ess
like the cheat grass thats eating up your bones;
Young mustang, that I am
with taut muscles to please my little girl.
And the bathtub,
with its black ring,
Is the only place I see god these days.
Because the blind faith
of the children is no reason to give praise.
I feel fear-li-ess
like the artist who doesn't love the craft;
Young mustang, that I am
the cavalier who will surely die too young.
I'm the lone whore
of this small town,
egocentric, sexual, and shy.
And the blind faith
in tradition is no reason to feel safe.
way up high,
so damn high,
so down here,
way down here,
way up high,
so damn high,
. . . I wrote the Great American Novel in four months.