Some call it being friends
Some call it being alone
Because I'd take a bullet for you
Take a beating to my bones
I'd take the blame you earned and still
I'd never ask for your help
I'd never admit defeat
Since you don't take prisoners
And are a shitty listener
I love you but what does that even mean
You need to be comforted from the challenge
Of the world that you created and wrought
It was you who started the fight
You asked for help to win
Your wars
That should never have been fought
"... This ain't a scrap, fellows. It's murder, an' we ought to stop it."
But no one stopped it, and he was glad, punching on wearily with his one arm, battering away at a bloody something before him that was not a face but a horror, an oscillating, hideous, gibbering, nameless thing that persisted before his wavering vision and would not go away. And he punched on and on, slower and slower, as the last shreds of vitality oozed from him, through centuries and eons and enormous lapses of time, until, in a dim way, he became aware that the nameless thing was sinking, slowly sinking down to the rough board-planking of the bridge....”
