Portrait of an Arsonist

His hair brushes against his neck,

Singed at the edge and wild at the crown,

His eyes are wrapped in black and blue,

With one arm shorter than the other,

He stutters every word he makes,

And falters every step he takes,

He's a typical self-righteous punk,

Who could never keep his head down,

Someone who got stuck on girls like glue,

Who got busy screwing others over,

Cause he was never good at buildin',

So he got busy burnin'.

When he wanted something sweet he burned wood,

When he wanted to forget what he knew he burned paper,

When he wanted a rush he burned up some gunpowder,

When his mama hurt his papa he burned that memory out,

And when he hurt his girl he burned himself too,

So he sat atop the big hill,

With his dog and his cigar,

Watching an eyesore burn down,

You wouldn't know it speaking to him,

You should but you wouldn't.

Cause he speaks with a certain fire in his voice,

That flickers and wavers as he rambles,

About his many lives and banal interests,

Just like any other kid.

And when it was time for him to leave the world,

He didn't eat and he didn't sleep.

Just shivered and twitched,

He couldn't hide the uneven brushstrokes

That were painted in wax years ago,

And when the needle struck he melted away

As all bed men will do.

What a fine portrait I made that day.

As all bad men will do.