A.G.E's Joint

  History doesn't repeat It rhymes The professors say they understand When all they want to do Is tie the poem to a chair with a rope And torture a confession out of it And become the next Carl Jung But all they are is the next Dan Brown.

Trash Litter on the side of the road. Tossed out. Under the California palms You came By any way the wind blew A train wreck. Now lifeless and bloody In the bed of a truck. Your talents are gone Taken away by your own Weaknesses and wants A Tabula Rasa Vanished in the mist.