| That thing inside my ribs is like a pile of reptiles,
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| Pressed on splintered vertebrae, so cold, so claustrophobic,
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| Echoing in hollow fruit are orders sent with love to you,
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| To serve a will more shallow still than paramecium
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| I’ll bet your hands are beautiful,
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| I’m sure your head is beautiful,
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| But the world is ugly,
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| The world is ugly and it’s true,
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| I’ll bet your hands are beautiful,
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| I’m sure your head is beautiful,
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| But with world is ugly,
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| The world is ugly even after you
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| Invertebrates now contemplate your lavishing and humble service,
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| All set to hide behind the guise that this empty thing can’t hurt us,
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| Sensationalized for virgin eyes, it’s graphic, it’s disturbing,
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| And it’s worse still to think it’s real,
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| Degrading and unnerving |