Down,
down at the bottom
of that pit less
***** you call
your stomach
you all have
taken
or
thought
about the mere fact
that there's
one thing
in the soulless
trench whom we've
named Earth
which controls our
"meaningless lives."

A piece of ******* paper.
That kind of off-forest green,
torn up, and passed around
slice of priceless paper.
A tree in the form of a
rectangle shocks our eyes
with ******, vengeful
appeal every single day
of our withering lives.
Could it be the
face that we've
memorized off of
Mount Rushmore
that makes us
believe for even a second
that our taste could possibly
be a bit more
lavish.

**A piece of ******* paper.