Static

Campfire, smoke, and rising stars
Are all I need most every night
Or my twice annual cigars
Burned underneath a meteor flight
Which in turn fry through the air
To demonstrate their light and heat
Is greater than the demon's share
Making hell all too complete
And finished hell is too soon found
In every day anxiety,
From all too common toxic sound
Of popular variety,
Which vacillates between bad rap
And Nashville's country music trap.