Peter the Beetle By Charlie Rue

Every night Peter would remove his bones and curl in on himself, chewing on his legs as the

wind sang him to sleep, he had to do this so he could roll over the next morning and get out

of bed. 

His mother said he breathed too loud sometimes, she didn't understand that he was humming,

whistling through his appendages in Gm.

Peter would sing for his friends though, he would sing for them until their ears bled, sitting in

their pockets far away from the crushing soles of prepubescent boys, guitar strings vibrating

his body into goo five foot above the ground.