Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough, they'll never stop their running   Gunning for their brothers   This house is a hostel, it is peaceful, but it's always emptying   Boys all want to be someone      Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar   Feeding the facts to false fires   Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire   (But I'll score your string ensemble)      I saw my son at seventeen, the shudders made projections on his naked frame   But now at twenty-five, he simply cannot stay away from the ketamine   With make-up on his sores, he spends an hour a day composing his own eulogy   Sometimes he sends me letters, but they're mostly garbled phrases and apologies      Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar   Feeding the facts to false fires   Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire   (Append a Bulgarian children's choir)