Ill, Ill Wind
It's an ill, ill wind that blows no good.
It's a lonely man who cries.
For he's nothing more than a heart of wood
And a pair of empty eyes.
Like a forlorn ghost in an empty room
Still he waits, though hope's grown slim,
For the crack of dawn or the Crack of Doom.
It is all the same to him.
He killed so much time that the future died.
Now he lingers at the wake
With his broken dreams and his shattered pride,
Hoping there's been some mistake.
You are here to learn. Get your ass to school.
Let the old folks mind the store.
For your life's a game and you'll play the fool
'Til you figure out the score.