Ever-conscious of the cage,
We take comfort in our cells.
Dreaming of escape,
But making no attempt to free ourselves.

I think I'm getting a little older
Now that my ****'s are turning gray
My Beard's turning to gas
And I have ***** hair's
Crawling out of my -

"Hey kid, you'll go far
because you're just so friggin' smart,
and nevermind this art ****."

Common sense dictates that you'll have to pay expenses.

I'm being pulled apart by forceful influences.

They say,
"Everybody's dying just to get the disease,"
but their silly guilt trips don't make me want to fall down on my knees
and pray.

Oh they say,

They say quite an awful lot of things,
but none of it means anything to me.

(Let them make all of their money.
Let them say that I look funny.
I won't let them swallow me whole while they rub their hallow tummies.)

Common sense dictates that I'll have to pay expenses,
but I take offense to the thought that I'm being pulled apart by outside influences.

Let them talk . . .

Whilst walking down the street
I heard a thunderous tweet;
'Twas a straining little bird
Who couldn't pass a ****.

The little thing was constipated,
Its **** wide dilated;
Tweeting loudly in mid-bog,
Trying to eject a log.

I observed with sympathetic heart
As it trumpeted out a ****;
Straining, chirping loud and long,
Letting off a foul and noisome pong.

I watched for nigh an hour
Its display of **** power;
Then a final intestinal pump
Produced a huge great steaming lump:

A mighty ball of faeces
(a giant of its species,
and total bumhole splitter
which shattered its feathered *******).

Never been the type for dances.
Don’t much care for sweaty bodies surrounding me.
But I go anyway, you know?
Just for one of the few I call ‘friend’ and
Sacrifice a night of peace and quiet.
But I don’t mind that.

Though I can’t help but stare
At the others around me.
Flashy colours and flashy dresses
And the like.
Or lack thereof.
(And I don’t wear dresses)

One thing I’ve learned:

Stick out your *****,
Show some ***,
And just an inch of skin.
Suddenly,
I’m a ******* princess.

Silence tastes like a bit tongue.
A mouthful of iron -
ready to spit blood.

Safe in omission.
Silence is stubborn.
Guilt through admission,
but hidden in cupboards.

Break all the glasses.

Silence sounds like a drama on mute.
Destitute actors waving their arms in vain.
The quiet makes us different,
but it always sounds the same.