Practise

 
There never seemed any closure to the broken strings
In his life, he knots the pieces together but his heart hurts
In the night when the dream comes, the vision that brings
The sham that keeps him alive, he stood naked, the welts
On his chest throbbing like a gaping wound and he walked
A narrow corridor its walls decorated with photographs of
His son, his daughter, his dead ex-wife whom he often talked
Of to numb the emptiness of his conversations, to numb
The pity and anger he felt because his friends had forgotten
Him it seems they could not keep up with his cock and b-

At the end of the corridor was a window, he looked and saw
A house that he once knew where a man came round with a
Shotgun with the cigar with the sneer looking for the fellow
Who was shagging his wife, he knew it was best to turn away
Into the darkness where he entertained the photographs with
Songs and monologues because the photographs did not
Disappear, an audience with determination and resolve with
The staying power his tedious talents his cock and b- called for
In these dreams he practised the whimper that came between
His tears and his laughters, and this is how he endures the din.