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Wet
By
Rusty
Broadspear
The paintwork
around the doors and windows glistened
The wall paper became
damp and begun to peel and fall,
I was as calm as ocean
waves in the eye of a storm,
I knew the hit and
hurt would come with the squall.
The bed was filthy, my
head was numb, my clothes were damp,
The Moon was low, so
was I, the dark hurt my eyes.
I was jerky,
excitable, agitated, I turned on the lamp,
No food, no drink,
only needles and stuff, so I’d got supplies.
The ceiling dripped
water, I know, I felt it on my skin,
I saw water in my
veins as I lay in indoor rain
I knew the hell-bound
hit was about to begin
I was going insane,
but in no state to complain.
The filthy stinking
mattress was now a waterbed
Man I was rocking and
grooving, and descending fast.
This, was not for
kids, this was watershed
And believe me garage
listeners, this awareness doesn’t last.
It was when I was
riding the reaper’s cart, I saw water,
But pure,
uncontaminated, not good enough to inject,
I was on the slab, raw
meat, or queuing for slaughter
I wasn’t steak,
chops or minced beef, I was wrecked.
But you see, you
garage, house, innocent young folk,
I’m in a home, where
you can’t move nothing but your head,
I survived, someone
phoned, and when I awoke
I was in good hands -
I could be dead - in that wet room instead.
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