Drinking cyanide at a jazz bar, the way people drink coffee… they down it until they are numb and jittery.
Poor me a glass, tall and icy,
fill it with static and ghouls.
I’ll follow it with a strong hit of tragedy,
drink to the dead man’s blues.
I’ll drink until my lips are grey,
tinged with sting of poison
I’ll pull back the horrors infused in the brew
surrender to all the voices
So poor me a glass, tall and icy,
I promise to drink the last drops.
let the liquid entangle my soul like ivy,
‘cuz the dead man’s blues don’t stop.