". . .Gateway to fun, and flat laughlines. . ."

The thief in the night is what reeks when you light/
The strife, word, I've gotta strike it out/
I've been pitching my balls to the wall to do so for half my life now/
I plow through the bullshit stories and contrived hipster allegory/
Implore me, I'll stay near—so when your back is turned I can pour out your beers/
I fear that years ago, back when the tears were poured/
It was that midnight prowler that left us with one thin worn dollar/
I've got lears in store for the memories of the drinks—but stop let me think!/
In my memory; Yes, memory... don't let it startle you. I didn't smoke up all my particles/
I got a story to tell about my little bit of hell, from the heart/
Let's get into the Pinto, my juvenile smile plays the part, as the beast rolls us into K-Mart/
Grab the dollar, saunter to the counter labeled Lay-A-Way?/
Mother. Fucker. Stay away—I can be a hustler, struggling to fit into last year's Rustlers/
That can't be right, what causes trailer park plight?/
Dad must be at work cause he's outta sight/
But when he's out—we get jacked by the Thief in the Night/
It's either needles or knives to skin as reaction to fathers' alcoholic dysfunctions/
I've been there, but to all your hardware, I can display but a hard stare/
Beware, society may pry but they don't care/
Maybe it's fame I blame... the man with the fake chin tole me the source of our problems/
Right after another joke about Bin Laden. . ./
He spoke about men who touch children wearing black cloaks/
Well, he almost got it right/
Yup, it's that damn Thief in the Night/

Fin.