Tinker, tailor, soldier, ****
Still on the wrong end of a gun, and
I feel like a walking phallus-y, spelled with a "ph"
A balancing act on a ballast beam

I'm sick of splitting pills
Like splitting hairs
Over an equal piece of the same share
I'm sick of playing fair

Like alliteration taught to an illiterate
In a post-biblical nation
I’m trying on your patience

And the monstrosity that is my social viscosity
Is borne consciously
Proceed cautiously

But who would I be without the depravity?
The sick and sadder me?
Another puzzle piece probably
Resigned to believe his beliefs aren't faulty
******' salty, and
Steeped in a brine of designer beef and corn feed
Too yellow to bleed

No

When I speak, I beg you to see
Suffering is a similarity, synonymous with life
So proudly riddled with strife, I spit
This wisdom demands sacrifice