I worked twelve-hour weekend day shifts in an electronics lab. 7am to 7pm Saturday and Sunday after working a couple of night shifts during the middle of the week. Made me like a zombie. He drank enough to always come in looking like one. I wrote this song about him (some of us don't have the voice to do metal(ish) stuff, but want to anyway):
The Walking Dead
Leaden
footsteps shuffle past him; reddened eyes are wet and blurred
Croaking
they ask him for money, he acts like he hasn't heard
Doesn't
drink embalming fluid, but he's got poisons of his own
And when
it is time for sleeping, he has got himself a home
Through the day he's not alive
Only when the moon is high
So is he and his mind's racing
Feels that closing time draws nigh
He wants
everyone to join him, watch him nullify his brain
He'll
take anything that's offered, into stomach, lungs or vein
Then at
work he's barely moving and he smells like rotting things
Shambling,
stumbling, the light hurts him, but when it's home-time he's got wings
Guess he
feels like he needs others, crowds to help bury his pains
And he's
trying not to notice member's dues are pain in brains
Contrary
to what he's thinking (that Oblivion is fun)
He's not
stirring up a good time, just mixing up what's considered one
You
all know this, you're alive
You
can see and hear and taste
Pleasure
dies divorced from context
Do
not lay your mind to waste
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