a man had went from beginning to end, decidedly gone for good
divorced his wife, and quit the band, and left the neighborhood
had forced himself to run far-off and suddenly changed his pace
to only leave his favorite coat at a random stranger's place

far removed from the fandom of all curious desire
and still within the outs and the ins of our furiousness and fire
here and there and no worse for the wear for the ones that no ever relaxes
hither and yon for the frightening beyond discriminate deaths of his taxes

anonymousness had then taken the piss of identity sold and now boughten
the simple disgrace upon losing your face is a tragedy happens too often
forgotten itself is a series of shelfs that are covered in dust and are empty
he waits til' tomorrow, with all empty sorrow, we come back again, there is plenty