Standard (EADGBE)

I wear the customary clothes of my time,

 Like Jesus did, with no reason not to die

Facing history, with little to no irony

 Like Im some forgotten southern city, Sherman razed

Still hid under thick smoke after all these years

 These hands, are my fathers hands but smaller

 Soaked in paint thinner,

 Until theyre so dry coming together,

 They make the sound of resisting each other

 A shrill squeal like two moving rubber, tires touching

Hide nothing, hide nothing