His Thunder (Little Comets)

I’m a mat and I still retain Accumulated stories of the tawdry years I’ve been stamped out by rum-fuelled boots The brute, us hiding under stairs Waiting for his thunder to hit Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it? Waiting for his thunder to shout Waiting for his thunder to tire itself out So I lie flat, in sheets worn thin By his sublimations that reside within For I’m the truth, the two in ten That suffer at the whims of the weakest men Waiting for his thunder to hit Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it? Waiting for his thunder to shout Waiting for his thunder to tire itself out Each bruise I use as a chronicle of all that you gave me now And every scar a reminder of the power that you had The saddest part about the darkest hours The implication that the fault was ours Waiting for his thunder... Waiting for his thunder to hit Waiting for his thunder and thinking is this it?