Chekhov's Gun

I've lived years, none'd leave unscathed
Seen time advance even when you're running in place
Have arrived at an age, some clubs I can't join
See them pointing to the money, wondering what is the point

I always know where to begin, but it's harder to end
It all does, I often hardly want to bother with friends
Where they went wrong, they never even thought to repent
They will never get to call me an artist again

A vigilante lyricist with a gun in the sock
I'm Frank Pembleton, they can't handle son in the box
Sought perfection in my craft, it has taken its toll
But I was always at my worst when the stakes were too low

Standing at Achilles' heel are his myrmidons
Who've grown tired when every action was a furtive one
You can't compare their little bars to the work I've done
Just 'cause the name is not a bell that the churches rung

Atop the perch, from which they never even heard the gun
The suitcase is closed, the truth became exposed
The traitors are dead, they can't trace the bullets
Nor the weapon; in effect, the new case is cold

Names stay in the red, I escape to my sanctuary
Hard springs, soft pillows where I lay my head
I've taken a course, that's counterintuitive
Rigged bridges just to keep my edge double as the sword

A man cornered is a dangerous one, and that's my comfort zone
Come alone, even as a stranger to none
Introverted, wear my heart on my sleeve and cut the wrist
Just to tell from the reaction who is truly maladjusted

There's no trust in business, there's just lust for riches
We all chase illusions, claiming that we're fucking realists
I've given love to women, 'till I was out of feelings
The wheels never stopped spinning since then

Sincerely, I won't wait to hear my sins during sentencing
There's still a couple objectives that're unfinished
In a minute, they'll forget the good deeds
Yet remember the fingerprints on the gun I forgot to keep clean