Your place in the sun that shitty apartment where your friends are
That space you can run to rather than address the test to your rot

A place in the ground plywood casket next to loved ones
That space that you’re found bloated off-white blue in two feet of mud

Tragedy is comedy minus yourself

A tawny pale glow
Headlights in a ditch below
AM on Route 32
Guard rail in the shape of bloom

Now here’s some bad news when you’re pressed your friends peel off from you
Add some sad news when you’re pressed your friends catch a case of self-interest

Your building burns in the distance
Your loved ones arrive
To watch from the hoods of their cars
They lower the radios to listen to you die

Your lonely gravesite nobody visits in the daylight
For fear your name might expose what we already know about those
Sons of bitches who only tell but never show

A tawny pale glow
Headlights in a ditch below
AM on Route 32
Guard rail in the shape of bloom
When they come for the show
The headlines read like a joke

Tragedy is comedy when it’s someone else

Let’s laugh ourselves to death
I still find it funny
Let’s laugh ourselves to death
I can’t help myself and I won’t try