Over and over

sometimes,
in the search for pleasure,
everything we find
It's a bucket full of shit.

and the sewer of feelings
runs like a river of lava
and nothing washes the insides
of the one I thought I loved.

and the torrential rain in free fall
like piss in sweet urinals
no care, no cleanliness... with no body.

and the bread that the devil kneaded
and the hand that no one held like that
and the blood, flows, flows... the blood
apparently the blood runs into the river.

sometimes after much searching
everything we have left in our bloody hands
It's a bucket that we washed away all the shit.

Sometimes it's just shit... just shit!