My Songs Always Sound A Lot Better

I Think A Poet Is Anybody Who Wouldn't Call Himself A Poet.

Crimson Flames Tied Through My Ears Rolling High And Mighty Traps, Pounced With Fire On Flaming Roads Using Ideas As My Maps.

He's Hell Bent For Destruction, He's Afraid And Confused, And His Brain Has Been Mismanaged With Great Skill.

Johnny's In The Basement Mixing Up The Medicine I'm On The Pavement Thinking 'bout The Government.

Last Night I Danced With A Stranger, But She Just Reminded Me You Were The One.