Little Coffins

Underneath the face of a sad clown lies a little wicked small town/ Just a speck on the map/ You may just be passing through but soon the fever will catch up to you/ Feel the ripple effect/ Here you won't make a best friend, but a sister you never had/ She'll guide you through the flowers and offer lots of laughs/ But even at her most serene there's a sinister current underneath/ A flexing of power/ And soon you'll start looking towards the ground, where you'll start tripping too much to be coincidence/ An as you look up the danger stops/ She'll look right through you as if you were air and she'll say, 'Take my hand'/ Soon she'll invite you to parties of mutual bodies, who happen to favor clumsy fools like you/ But they'll treat you like a guest of honor, when really their accolades are insults with armor/ They've nothing better to do but make up a coded language and test it on you/ How did I get here?/ How can I disappear?/ But as you start to evaporate she'll throw you another inquiry/ She's reading off your flaws with smiling jaws/ Taunting you with mistruths/ You look away hurt, and she seizes the moment to write the jab on a napkin/ Something to share with the cronies for later/ Ha-Ha, how cleverly subtle you are!/ Friendship is makeshift here, my dear/ The hippies don't play instruments anymore/ The company she keeps would dispose of her in a second/ But she's not worried, she has you as her bullet shield/ The body-snatchers with mommy issues save face quite gracefully here/ They all say they'd leave, but they burn a free ticket/ A mafia with no honor/ You'll have seen more life in comas than this town/ Little coffins with hearsay mouths where hearts should be/ Small town breeds fairweather ghosts and cold abodes/ But it sure is a great place to be if you're training on how to play dead