Hungover and Blacked Out
Wakin' up to hell's own image
Head poundin' somethin' fierce
A cowpoke finds himself knee-deep
In death's cold water—immersed
Eyes flicker open to lifeless
Gazes starin' back so still
Memories a scatter-shot haze, last night's
Deeds an unknown pill
Bottles lay shattered 'round his boots like
Dreams that done been dashed
And every stiff tells a story
Their final chapter slashed
He tries to piece together how this carnage came to pass
But his mind's just shootin' blanks
—a trigger pulled on empty mass
Blood sticks to him worse than guilt
It clings like shadows to sin
Got no clue if he played dealer or was just cashed in
Room reeks of gunpowder and regrets
Brewed too strong
If he's the one who dealt this hand
Then lord knows it all went wrong
Now he stands alone amidst quiet corpses tellin' tales untold
Their voices snuffed out by violence—
Or so he fears as truth unfolds
A hungover cowpoke
Staggered by weight not
Of drink but dread
Not sure if he's among the living or
Another ghost made dead
He searches through pockets for clues amongst the gore
Hoping for redemption in
This bloodbath's core
Whiskey-soaked flashbacks flicker
But they're fast and frail
Half-memories of laughter, screams, then nothing... just the stale
He finds a piece, still warm from
Firing furious rounds
Heavy with implication in his shaky hands it pounds
Did he carve this massacre or is he just another pawn?
A plaything for fate's fickle finger
To move and then be gone
So there he stands—a figure framed by daylight's creeping scorn
Wond'rin' if he'll be the hangman or if he'll hang at morn
A hungover cowpoke left guessin' 'bout sins possibly his own—
In a room where death is plenty but truth remains unknown
He searches through pockets for clues amongst the gore
Hoping for redemption in this
Bloodbath's core
Whiskey-soaked flashbacks flicker
But they're fast and frail
Half-memories of laughter, screams, then nothing... just the stale
He finds a piece, still warm
From firing furious rounds
Heavy with implication in his shaky hands it pounds
Did he carve this massacre or is he just another pawn?
A plaything for fate's fickle
Finger to move and then be gone
So there he stands—a figure framed by daylight's creeping scorn
Wond'rin' if he'll be the hangman or if he'll hang at morn
A hungover cowpoke left guessin' 'bout sins possibly his own—
In a room where death is plenty but truth remains unknown
Head poundin' somethin' fierce
A cowpoke finds himself knee-deep
In death's cold water—immersed
Eyes flicker open to lifeless
Gazes starin' back so still
Memories a scatter-shot haze, last night's
Deeds an unknown pill
Bottles lay shattered 'round his boots like
Dreams that done been dashed
And every stiff tells a story
Their final chapter slashed
He tries to piece together how this carnage came to pass
But his mind's just shootin' blanks
—a trigger pulled on empty mass
Blood sticks to him worse than guilt
It clings like shadows to sin
Got no clue if he played dealer or was just cashed in
Room reeks of gunpowder and regrets
Brewed too strong
If he's the one who dealt this hand
Then lord knows it all went wrong
Now he stands alone amidst quiet corpses tellin' tales untold
Their voices snuffed out by violence—
Or so he fears as truth unfolds
A hungover cowpoke
Staggered by weight not
Of drink but dread
Not sure if he's among the living or
Another ghost made dead
He searches through pockets for clues amongst the gore
Hoping for redemption in
This bloodbath's core
Whiskey-soaked flashbacks flicker
But they're fast and frail
Half-memories of laughter, screams, then nothing... just the stale
He finds a piece, still warm from
Firing furious rounds
Heavy with implication in his shaky hands it pounds
Did he carve this massacre or is he just another pawn?
A plaything for fate's fickle finger
To move and then be gone
So there he stands—a figure framed by daylight's creeping scorn
Wond'rin' if he'll be the hangman or if he'll hang at morn
A hungover cowpoke left guessin' 'bout sins possibly his own—
In a room where death is plenty but truth remains unknown
He searches through pockets for clues amongst the gore
Hoping for redemption in this
Bloodbath's core
Whiskey-soaked flashbacks flicker
But they're fast and frail
Half-memories of laughter, screams, then nothing... just the stale
He finds a piece, still warm
From firing furious rounds
Heavy with implication in his shaky hands it pounds
Did he carve this massacre or is he just another pawn?
A plaything for fate's fickle
Finger to move and then be gone
So there he stands—a figure framed by daylight's creeping scorn
Wond'rin' if he'll be the hangman or if he'll hang at morn
A hungover cowpoke left guessin' 'bout sins possibly his own—
In a room where death is plenty but truth remains unknown
Credits
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