Hide the Evidence

I’ve got a rusty old bike
to which I’m shackled and chained
you’re the cryptic driver
and I’m the one in pain
you said you’d take me for a ride,
(that was fourteen years ago)
there’s a time when birth and death collide
I just never knew it would be this slow.
I’ve got a chain that needs some feeling,
a frame that needs some rest
when I jump to bed I rise to the ceiling
(and when I get a shower I’m fully dressed).
We’re all just riding through the mire
that gets plastered on our tyres
then you have to work for eight empty hours
to pay to scrape it off.
We spend most of our money on cases of beer
to help us feel like bigger men and pulverize the fear
When was the last time you brushed your hair
or found some clean clothes to wear?
Amongst the mess of this wasted life,
hide the evidence, disguise the knife.