To an empty glass of vodka, I said…
Not a rhyme or word in my head…
It’s all your fault, and of her in
my bed…
Though it’s a fact, there’s not a
thought, not even a shred!
The game was well played… now they’re
all dead,
Some reaped, some with a bullet in
their head…
The smell of dried blood… and
nightmares in my head…
But I move on… as if that life were
over… and I dead.
I think.. is it something I said,
something I did, some gal I laid?
Was it her… of whom I only dreamt,
never said a word, my letters shred!!!
I love her, can’t tell her, can’t
show her… cant her way, tread…
Maybe I’ll forget her, when I am truly
gone,
truly lost… most definitely… dead!