You can see a condensed ring on every counter top
or a full bottle next to him as he pisses in the pot.
it goes where he goes and he never really knows it;
just a feeling in his hand like a scar from a brand.
His brand had a slogan, "Best in the West", and it was
or so he was convinced this as he sat alone to buzz.
Thinking forward brought him back to the past, so relapse;
cycles spin -- so do ceilings --just like trees back into saps.
He thought for the longest time he was the coolest cat
and that vivacity is what had turned his present into past.
When you prove yourself while young you prove that you are old
because you prove yourself by always doing what you're told.
And so he did, and so he does, and so he would, and so on
with no one else besides himself to place the blame upon,
instead thinking "I am better. Cut it out. I'm free";
free to purchase freeing things legally.
Now his tensions seek truth with himself removed.
Opinions else are like jargon lest himself approves.
Those are truths that he will seek and will never find
and are opinions he will scorn until the end of time.
Who could blame a man who saw every corner of the Earth
praising blamed-raised-to-fame by consuming to get mirth?
He copied acting sloppy because it was just and allowed
until his just deserts caught up to him for being proud;
Proud of conforming, of confirming life's a wince.
Since he never repressed this they never visited his grave since.
If he only told a story easy to read he'd be really free
or so the justice of the peace said to him scantily.