death by shotgun

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