I am the tired soul in the back
Unfit for anyone
Unfit to talk to anyone
in the wake of a horrid tale
They force us through the proper channels
There is no pay at the end;
It is only sickly tripe
All the woe in my waking hours
All the pain sipping upon me
I am a worthless knave
But goddammit.
I'm still here
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The Tired Soul in the Back
PoetryI am the tired soul in the back Unfit for anyone Unfit to talk to anyone living in the wake of a horrid tale They forced me through the proper channels, and there was no pay at the end; only sickly sickly tripe And the woe in my waking hours, and...
