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