Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough They'll never stop their running Gunning for their brothers This house is a hostel It is peaceful, but it's always emptying Boys all want to be someone Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird I am a liar, feeding facts to a false fire If pathos is borne Borne out of bullshit in formal attire I'll score you a string ensemble I saw my son at seventeen The shutters made projections on his naked frame Now at twenty-five He simply cannot stay away from the ketamine With makeup on his sores he spends an hour a day composing little eulogies Sometimes he sends me letters But it's mostly garbled phrases and apologies But haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird I am a liar, feeding facts to a false fire If pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit In formal attire Append the Bulgarian children's choir