A Variant of Mescaline

What a face
Lips on fire
Contusions at it's throat
What a man spitting out words in a venomous tone.

Stick him in an unmarked holding tank.
Pay the rail fare, take the subway home.

What a look
Leather in drag
Anachronistic common-minded punk
Belonging to a place that existed once but ceases to exist here anymore.

Stick him in a library with books pressin up against his skin.
Pay the rail fare, take the subway home.
We were on a variant of mescaline, runnin down the highway
Hellhounds on our tails.

Explosions, confusion, cops in passing cop cars
Run him up without bail.

You will not become anybody else.
You will arise.
You will.