Death By Shotgun - Listener

Well, he’s been out of work for months

But still dresses for the office

And he kisses his wife goodbye

And he heads for his park bench

Oh, every morning

Well, his briefcase in hand

And he just can’t seem to tell her

Inside he’s no longer a man

And he looks through the paper

Convinced that nobody wants him

His hands to his side in surrender, chest caved in

His eyes are half open, not tired, but not awake

And he spends his days hoping for an end to the headache

And he-he writes it all down

About everything and nothing

He talks about his kids

And how he wants to leave 'em something

He’s got a thing for pain, and he blocks it all with his heart

To keep from going insane, he puts it all in his art

And that eases his mind, but it never lasts long

He keeps repeating to himself:

Y-you gotta be strong, y-you gotta be strong, y-ya gotta be strong

Well, he just can’t seem to put it all together

He tries to think of the ways that it could all be better

Well, his family and his life no longer compel him

Well, he talks to himself, and says:

You gotta swim

Well, He’s tired of the sickness

And he begs for the insulin

He tries to keep above water, and he prays for the will to win

He wants to be a good father

But he knows that he’s not one

And dreams of eating a barrel, full of, death by shotgun