Brushed her off tonight, to swipe meats and wine
with your crew of chefs and thieves.
Tonight the rubber off, she offered as a thought,
if you would opt for bed not street.
Well you're not me, Garryowen. Oh no, and
I can't speak for this life you've chosen.

Drunk pissed punks tryst, bustin' cars with fists,
the littlest fuss will incite your rage.
In you come, piss drunk, smug in smegma crust,
since hummers aren't love, or so she's claimed...
Well see, Garryowen, now no one,
buys your grief as the boy unchosen.

So the celibate you'll play, self-medicated,
stewing in hatred for the world.
Slammed in the well, you'll glimpse yourself
with choler turned up, cringing in shame.
As claws you built from scratches, with your bilious malice,
fill up a package strapped to your scapegirl,
You'll slap her down, and push her out,
a crumpled castaway!

Your rabid wit unleashed, Garryowen, to no end,
you'd make her strip bare just to watch her freeze.
You won't always have her for your pet.
Someday she won't be there; someday yet!

Final trip on a tanker, you'll drop your anger
to which you've chained her; she'll sink into
the briny end. Now that you're cleansed,
aren't you the faltering dear?
They told her, "Never help a self-abuser
see himself as well in you."
You'd smite your kitten good, galled that smitten
she would opt just not to hear!

Toora-loora-li, Garryowen, who owes no one,
becomes someone's last-ditch alibi.
You're a purer lie...

Join our mailing list!
Thanks for your support!

Write us at: