Master of Puppets by Metallica

Saint Elmo's fire in the dark,
And uncomfortably close, it's one of those
Seldom-seen-but-never-forgotten-things
That you chase after the rest of your life
Like being struck by lightning.
Steel blue root-scar fading from
Your inner thigh for many nights but
Never again.
Some could, but not
Everyday miracles worth believing in:
Flint gravel, hail shower, ESP
All else is bunk. I could
Live piously, yet I've always yearned
For the lightning, I just didn't know it at the time.
Inexplicable iron cylinders, sleek
Like mausoleums before
The firmament's joule cannula
Invokes thick stiffening and
Storm-wet, homotropic heliophiles afterwards.
You can suck Saint elmo's fire.
You can be many dragons, you can
Be unruly, selfish-cynical
The way god created your
Ganglii to excite and emit;
Projecting sex-and-blood flicks on
Your endohypodermia, and then estivate;
Slack, sleepy and dumb
Like magistrates re: grapes.

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