Good Shepherd
Lays down his life
Mutilated guinea pig

Grind you up into portions.
Serve you up to the horde.
What was
temporarily
yours,
will feed
the meat
of
the future seed.
Sure enough
the scene
before the
excited mind,
the silent mouth,
shall
seemingly go
completely
unnoticed
til the matter mounts.

If I'd a dime for every rhyme
That popped inside my head
Wishing plague and misery
To **** what is already dead

Then perhaps some day, should I have my way
I'd bring silence to the lambs
**** it's bleating, end it's breathing
And let me rest amongst the ******

We cursed few do mock the blessed
We dance on your very grave
If only you saw perspective
You'd know there's none to save!

Time, time and time again
You promised to make change
And now my mind won't SHUT UP
It knows that I'm to blame!

I did this, I did that
I know what wicked ends
Have forged the stage of sorrows
That gave you all there was left

With piggy eyes and snuffling pride
Your wretched filth, and life
Have tempted fate, as of late
Now scream, pig, and die...

I see you there looking at me
cutest thing you'll ever see
pink peach fuzz all over myself
I sort of look like a cute little elf

my nose pokes through the fence
to show my eyes black and intense
I'm just a little guy, won't be a hog
I'll get along great if you have a dog

I'll be loyal, I can learn tricks
I'll trot along, feet making clicks
I want a home, I want to be taken
just please, oh please, don't name me "Bacon"

Crimson curtains opening and closing and draping over a cliff say:
          it’s showtime
          (or lights going on and off).

Let’s go through the alphabet and use alliteration:
          Daffy Duck, Porky Pig,
          (or other creatures getting hurt tonight).

I hope and dream that their hopes and dreams have plummeted like their bodies:
          by the wayside
          (or waist-side, or waste-side, or cliffside)—

low tide that surges shores like the seamstress from New Zealand:
          those Kiwis,
          (or feijoas, or passionfruit).

But passion don’t matter to us folks, and neither do kangaroos! We have our own hops:
          Pabst Blue Ribbon draining in sad funnels
          (or Bud Light, a treasure).

Second is the best, but Third is the one with that treasure chest in his stupid palm:
          not even knowing what to do
          (or how to act).

Are you serious, bro? It’s called a shotgun! Shoot it with my key:
          pop the cap to release pent-up pressure
          (or you can just chug normally).

Choo-choo trains chug, Thomas and me, little plastic wheels in hot pursuit:
          I know you can do it
          (or my name’s not Percy),

as I violently consume swizzle sticks before the sepia glow of:
          That’s all, folks!
          (Or is it?)

A twisted roast;
with a contorted face
of agony that most
blur just to taste.

God’s wrath beat fires
through the muscles
of impetuous liars.
Beaming pink like jewels

and impaling the fools
that build podgy prizes
of blood filled sacred pies.
Just for the masses.

Now prodding blackened fat
with a spitting adulation
caressing their tongue
on delicate tender tissue

courtesy of your virtue,
just six months and a quarter
cuz i'm just a pig who
lost life to the slaughter.

My hands, my eyes, my heart
They’ve done me wrong in this time of need
I control these things, therefore,
I let these things control me
And now I’m desperately searching for an escape, a peace
You are the refuge
My luxury in a sea of mediocrity
And I cry out to the sky,
For my core is rotten,
I’m a dying pig swarmed with flies, choking on cotton
But with you I’m not forgotten,
I’ll never be forgotten,
Renew my broken heart
That’s all I crave