The Truth is plain to see

The only way to get a good looking understanding of anything is to roll back the masked cranium with a scalpel and crowbar
through over feeling flesh ignoring the basset hounds eyes digging deeper towards caverns covered in scribbled in cliche Yeats Salinger graffiti passing near shiny melancholy filled wells deeper to a back bottom heads safe house spying glances through the window will only show loving holiday passion in every corner
once enticed to view further theres’ an angry little bastard child clinging to a barstool skulling back pints on an infinite bar tab that he will never pay smashing the glasses on the floor only to keep sweeping them up into a pile when he wants you to notice he is a good boy planting the pile neatly next to the jukebox
that only plays the intro of whiter shale of pale on repeat skipping back every time the first fines find their way into earshot
dilapidated floorboards still creak and moan from everyone else that has passed through the grime caked revolving door
the same tall tales of old keep being recited to whomever dares to sit down to accompany the bipolar half smile
attractive poetry grows tiresome as the baby gets uglier forcing any patron to move on longer down to further seats away
eying a way to the exit out of the no lost loved time spent listening and spending time with the bullshit
but theres’ no need for the guided tour its all just obvious

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