I've always said that the older
The soul, the fewer times

The three ugly words
"What about me?"

Have been uttered from
The mouth it possesses.

I wish I could oil the gears
Of your self worth with my

Every drop of compassion,
But this sudden flash of coldness

In my gut is that of a factory
Owner worrying ever so slightly

About a new sound in old
Machinery within the bowels

Of the buried bunker where they
Manifacture my every set

Of
Sympathies.