wtptmbtb.wav

It's a bruised and scarred	
battleground;

home of the down and out,
	the peirced and the branded 
	for life.

The sick and the weary
	sit on their barstools
	betting on racing
	cockroaches.

With a loud jukebox
	there is no room to think.
	Only enough space to drink
	and forget your own name.

Only enough space to hide
	in the cracks of the walls
	from the people sitting 
	next to you,
	and only enough time
	for nothing to do.

But everyone looks better
	in the mirror of the bar.
Opposite, 
	in the mirror of your house.