| Clot-brained cogwheel in the sheets
|
| Turns and sweats and makes his lists
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| Drug-dream-wracked reprobate creeps
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| Towards the daylight’s tasks in heaps
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| Pearl-zenithed walking zit
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| Makes his home where he can fit
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| Shops around for flavored swill
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| Earns new ulcers with that shit
|
| What oils lubricate his lust?
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| What libels lurk in songs he loves?
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| What lord commodifies his trust?
|
| He don’t know much but he knows this
|
| You take your cut where you can find it
|
| Drinksop spirit drowns the past
|
| He just wanted to do his best
|
| But trying only wore him thin
|
| Fuck off, you didn’t live through any of this
|
| Prideful inmate sworn to stress
|
| Bares his teeth at disrespect
|
| Freedom’s a real pretty word
|
| Take the options you can get
|
| He chants the happy victim’s creed:
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| Let distraction succor me
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| And polish all my edges down
|
| ‘Til I am smooth and blank as stone
|
| To better fill my given role
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| Make me what I am
|
| Make me the servant I was born to be |