There was honor among the thieves,

the only truth I could believe.


But, when the lies applied to me and mine

it's better left unsaid.

We could write the hit parade

outside The Masquerade.

The headache comes in tidal waves,

the spoils of the spoiled.

The lines of history became the scenery.

It's strictly an accessory,

an image to uphold.

But, it's all in fun and sin

until someone calls it in.

The cycle comes around again.

But, I'm older now,

and don't you know,

I've figured out

the antidote.

It overwhelms,

engulfed in smoke.

It's all we can to cope.

Goddamn these idle hands

as hindsight can.

Our hopes and plans

are unfulfilled.

It's overwhelming.

There's a proper place and time

though the bags under your eyes,

they don't lie.

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