Never really felt awful about
The way I slip in my rhetoric
And sink the world into these
Bogs of everlasting rot

It was my curse to inspire anger
But now in my path is
Sown sadness and though I will
It not, that's the way curses are

I never write down my poems and
They always rhyme,
Cast in dead images and
Forged by the lips of an angel

It's all I could hope for to make
It to the bottom