the barstool prophets howl their truths,
spit and ash tumbling with their words.
the jukebox blares a hymn to stupidity,
coins fed by blind-eyed believers.
a mob, drenched in whiskey’s claw,
worships the altar of shared delusion.
their laughter cracks the mirror behind,
but no one notices the shards at their feet.
wrong doesn’t blush under the spotlight—
it grins, bold as knuckles in a fight.
each nod, each chorus of agreement,
is another nail bent into the coffin’s wood.
I’ve seen saints cut loose for whiskey,
sinners crowned kings by popular vote.
truth isn’t in their roar or their ritual,
it lurks, skulking in the alley’s piss-soaked dark.
step outside, abandon the crowd’s chant—
feel the silence press its sharp edge.
the world is ugly when stripped bare,
but at least it doesn’t lie to your face.