What could be so wrong with me that I see a piece of me inside of you when you do all those wicked things you do?

I always find you when I'm dreaming, and once in the worst dream I ever had you said you were leaving. But in all the rest you stay standing by my side, or find me where I've been hiding and tell me everything will be alright. I've dreamt of you at least a hundred times, and it's always the best sleep of my whole life. The waking world can only compare when I'm with you anywhere, and when we're lying together with our arms wrapped around each other I don't want to fall asleep because no dream I have could be more sweet.

Succumbing simultaneously to solitude and stupidity, I'm ferociously falling face first into infinity, the endless ****** of organismic existence, and the relentless reaches of unbounded urges. Viscerally and vehemently, I recall and recoil, as memories marked on the heart start to lock my parts.

I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.

I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.

But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.

What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.