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The Inbreds
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Prince
We used to hear him trotting along, with the jingling song of his tags
but now we can hear when he's near by the sheering squeal of his wheels
I could stick a pin in his back, but he would not feel it
I can't take him out in the grass, or his wheels won't turn
Prince doesn't wag his tail when at first you meet him
He used to be a real fireball until a gun mowed him down
Prince was a toy dog on wheels
but how I wished he was real
Try to convince me that he's happy, or prove to me that he dreams
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These thoughts are closed off inside his head and will leave him when he's dead
I wonder, now, if he even remembers the bullet that maimed him,
that turned his gentle muscles into luggage on wheels
I wonder if he blames the gun that shot him and paralyzed him
I feel he still can smell the burning flesh of his hide
Prince has forgotten all his tricks; Prince is not at ease to sit
Supported by his canvas straps, he's eternally relaxed
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