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Dead ring in his ears
Black soot on his clothes
The smell of burnt timbers
Entrenched in his nose
From old ones, and young ones, and dead ones
He ran
Small fingers gripping
A gasoline can
Through rivers of concrete
The docks and the slum
The orange horizon
The deepening hum
Beneath the cold reek
Of driftwood and crabs
He buries it deep
Though he's already mad
Panic eats mobs
As hydrates roar
He stands wide-eyed
On the glistening shore
The din of the dying
Toes wet in sand
The call of his uncle
The gasoline can
Gruff men coo
As they take him away
Between white lips
Of sheets he'll stay
A ceiling above him
A nun at his side
His twitches lost
Under empty eyes
The red-rimmed pride
As the bullies ran
The fleeting respect
Of the gasoline can
If nerves would let him
He'd gnaw off his hand
The wicked mistake
Of the gasoline can
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