Inhuman, vestigial years.
A wicked stink.
Clotted rot for clots and rotters.
Now ask me how I wend my way? Now ask me how I fill my days?
Wasting time with whinging rhymes, cooking crimes, and earning dimes.
Just another rotted clot. A beastly bruise on boxed in land.
Pick me up and poke me under.
Take a spoon and scrape the sockets.
Cut the lobes, and fill your pockets,
with the fat now oozing south,
from nostrils, cunt, and vile mouth.
A pocket full of empty mind.
No wit, nor intellect to find.
A will of any sort would help,
instead we have a lazy pout.
Trout Kraut Sprout
lalalalalala
Hold your head in hands and weep
tap the ground with toe and scrape the gravel from between the grooves