Egyptologen, Korvkiosklegenden

Humans lying in their coffins. Large men eating muffins.
The thoughts divides the mind, behind the broken line.
Thousands of evil lines on parade.
Self sacrificing on each eachothers blades.
When the reckoning has come,
they just wanna go home.
I live in a nice cottage on the country side.
So, many laws I can't abide by.
Battered milk and endsless horns.
Can't wait to someone innocent scorn.
Now the happy days have gone, said someone who had nowhere to belong.
I don't know where west or east lies.
Somewhere between the silver lines.
So many people far from home.
Belonging on their balconies.
And trapped within their own desires, setting themselves on fires.
How often must a blind man lie, when he falls past the many clouds in the sky.
I don't know who, I don't know when.
Some football guy is always named Glenn.
It is a bad name.
I think.
It sounds like somebody at an hockey-rink.
All humans lost their vapid shoes.
And hung themselves in God's noose.
I waited til the end was over.
Now it is already in October.
Bottled wine and China jeans.
Sweatshops belongs all over the scenes.
My grand visions will abide by floors next to me resides.
So happy, that I'm finally gone, said lots of people, who lost to no one.
Finally sausages come along to clean up from all the headstrung.
So often than their thoughts have died, that I often find them to reside in their own homes, where the call their own phones.
And I listen to their conversations.
Where trains pass by the train stations.
And birds flock into their homes, where own they themselves are home alone.
Let people rob them of all they gott.
And tell me about their bambuskott.
The egyptologist spoke to the paintings on the wall,
and finally now, they heed his call.
He soon part of them become.
So that he finally can go where ihe belongs.
He belongs in the netherworld
With long glances trapping any bird.
Fleeing as they caw.
They all have pulled their last straw.
At home nobody's answering.
They finally found the last known thing.
A burrito wrapped in white.
Like stars glowing in the endless night.
It's a sause that leaks out from the sides. Gray matter, white matter.
Like a brain they divides their think so that one of us few,
can count on trusting myself too.
All nights have gone.
The endless sun
Shines on my shirt, and blurs my skirt.
But I¨m a man I don't wear skirts, I'd rather wear something else
first. If I had to choose. A blanket wrapped in a trapped moose.
Whose hoves have stamped into the ground, and finally rested from being found by
hunters looking for a life, to kill, with their guns and their hunting knives.
Their wives are waiting at home.
And talk to eachother in telephones.
Somewhere a women is calling home, to someone who is all alone
Watching television, looking for their shoes.
To go out soon, and let herself loose.

Humans all have lost their minds.
One always think that the passage of time would make them all wiser.
But they rather have weissbier.
It is a kind of a drink, that you can't buy in a hockey-rink, beccause they don't server alcohol.
They often fins themselves at fault.
I don't know where I belong.
I never wrote this stupid song.
To begin with everyone toegether
They join in fire lines.
And scorn eachother, from nickels to dimes.
I saw them wear their skirts at wore,
like they never had done anything else before.
And all I thought was that I was lost.
A meaningless symbol of life's costs.
And I would have no time to run,
and no one else has found my gun, behind the wall
in the waterfalls
of time and places that I can't recall
Behind they broken silver wall
of humans that have built their last
location to cherish their own past.
I don't know why
I don't know when
But the hockey guy, is always named Glenn.
For reasons that I can't understand.
I'm gonna go get a nice smoothie to blend.
It should have some berries in it
and when I look at my navel, I don't see anyone else is looking at it, unless I kind of look around, and waiting for some eyes to be found
that look at my navel
Where can I hide it?
From the people that watch.
I have to protect myself, at any cost.

A hundred thousand teeth lie white on the floor.
I can't stand it anymore.
The problem was Al Gore.
He politicized the climate thing.
So republicans now are fleeing the thing that keeps everyone up at night.
And everyone's tired of fighting.
Eachother
I hope
At least
Soon enough
It will be something that everyone scoffs
at.
I think.
Down by they hockey-rink.

Humans trapped behind their eyes.
And can't find out eachothers lies.
They keep themselves awake at night.
They always bring a gun to their gun fight.
And knifes they always bring too.
They enven brought one for you.
I think.
Said the lady in pink.
She has a pretty weird hair.
I think.
She doesn't belong their.
She doesn't belong anywhere.
She has a really big head.
I don't know how she can fit it into her own bed.
It's the largest head, that I have seen.
It's even larger than my own spleen.
I think.
I'm not really good at internal anatomy.,
Who am I to speak obout those subjects at hand.
I don't know ehre this conversation will land.
It will perhaps land in my own hair.
Which I spray with thoughts and underwear
Of human souls that all have left, but not before they commit theft, by taking all that wasn't found,
and bringing it to all behind
they vapid lines that make up countries.
They always kill themselves, to get bounties.
They wouldn't really know where to land.
A compliment, so often backhanded.
And thoughts, that have been stranded.
And lost for good.
In hollywood.
On the television screen.
Next to my spleen.
My spleen is fine.
It is well taken care of.
I don't care how many beers it has suffered from.

Where I left myself hidden
byhind the wall of time
I often eat
a clemetine
And I don't know where I looked around
tof find myself
in the shelf
of a store
where I bought the clothes I wore.
I'm no attention whore.
I'm a man, so you can't say that about me
I think.
At the hockey-rink.

The egyptologist
The night will end soon
Over the horizon, you can find the moon.
It lies there waiting
baiting with closed fist
In the pocket of their pants
A ... lack of elegance
Bloody fists
are going home
alone on their telephones
I waited til the earth stood still
I don't want to have a bacill
From the corona virus
A girl named miley cyrus
Is waiting there at home
On the telephone
All alone
Hidden from the lights of the street
Where the fights haven't met the meet of the beef
In the beets of the road
I'm being told
THat anyone there is to be kept
from the atmosphere
Of deceit and lies
Where no abides by the laws
of men that have shut their jaws
And wandered into the bit
of the large fish
on a stick
a fish stick.


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