Back to The Back of the Bus

Move me back to the back of the bus      
where the cool kids be      
no muss no fuss, just booze and weed      
and firecrackers      
aimed at tires and seats of open jeeps      
move me please      
too much heat on the front where a rear view sees      
and I am doomed to please      
by having all my human cease      
let me be as scum and sleaze      
cough and wheeze      
in the back of the back of the back of the bus      
rum and heathens      
run your thumb above where drunk chum is sleeping      
to find gum underneath bums      
bumping to beats, where we make      
fun of weak, scatter neat      
The back a splatter of bleak sin  
     
Pitter patter of feet being born to a teen      
in the back of the back of the bus      
where we mourn deceased      
and have no hope for our futures,      
no more than end all war      
as we hope for some peace      
where we      
implore for the seasons to change      
for a change of hands on weathered reigns      
bored by the bland      
Stan for any woman or man who sang      
about cars and things      
being lame and degrading cuz they were      
made by companies, shady      
jealousy in spades,      
we couldn’t afford those things      
cigars and rings      
so we clung to words and black shirts      
and atom bombs made of cherries      
now that i've explained, the      
back of the bus was kinda scary  
take me home