Fog - The Poor Fella lyrics

Lester Haye's stick gloves caught bags of bad blood, Intercepted hand grenades- But we aged, And the channel changed... The twilight of civilization no grace, a wasteland... The inventor of options has dropped dead from exhaustion Buried in a shallow plot Next to the movie store parking lot a TV in the coffin ceiling, lawnmower blades churning... I shall draw My blunderbuss The fuss and flood The pulled plug- Collapsing stacks of Crutches boxes Our hair eating Our outfits... Sentences beaten senseless By babies wearing sungla**es Bad Bar Mitzvah Party DJ's Halved by helicopter blades... Frenzied men Place desperate bets On epileptic seizure contents I sent a memo out about it But no one must have got it... He was all bruised and cut And the stuff from his pockets spilled on the ground after the fracus The Poor Fella He didn't know What he got himself into Shooting his Mouth off like that!