A boy called bill grew up on a farm,
So bouncy, smelly and loud,
Mum shouted over "bill clean your plate, it won't do you any harm",
She gave him some new shoes to set him a test,
let's see if they can stay clean, please do try your very best,
Bill ran outside wearing his wellies so proud, happy and sleek,
Click
Clak
Click
Clak
Horses, cows all so fluffy and cute couldn't help but take a sneak peek,
Bill hopped, skipped and leaped so high,
he thought for a moment he could fly,
As he jumped over the fence to tend to the pigs, the wooden panel broke off,
Bill could see as he slowly fell down he was landing face first in pig trough,
When he collided there was dirt everywhere,
Poor little bill looked up surprised, he had it in his face and hair,
He opened the fence not daring to leap back to his mum, woke her from sleep,
Slip
Slop
Slip
Slop
He tapped on her shoulder smelly and brown,
His mother looked curiously and began to frown,
She said "bill I told you and what did I say?",
Bill said nothing, looked down stood in the doorway,
He slowly looked up and said "ok you were right"
And bill started cleaning his plate every night.

as I was asked to think on women
to which whom I would call a muse,
there was a loud shuttering ClaK!
still to think on, only few women to choose.
who could I say?
a love scorned
a torch that still burns.  or
the ***** the turned my gut and left me
ClaK!!!  "Why should I care for my outburst enflared, this mess in front of me isn't fair!"
why is this my problem?
when all I want to do is have a little self-reflection bath in the morning air.
Why can't you have your time to judge yourself and tear your own ego apart, everyone else in your life has taken a piece, take un-biased look at your melancholy and you mite find it's terrentially inconsequential .

Rickity-tickity-clak. Onomatopoeia for a bygone age.
Soon the distinct, sometimes irritating/sometimes soothing signals
of a box sailing along a track will be stuck in the past.
A vintage sound.

a weapon that tears the world apart
like a Dali painting; the sound clak-clak-clak
turning heads like a pretty girl;
the world a wheel reeling backward
like a side-winding kid killer like
hollow-point cop killers blows a hole in ur rainbow;
like a Hell Fire gunship turning a bit more
of the world into hell; call it what it is &
what it does again and again;
kid killer ****** & motorcycle mayhem
drunk behind the wheel of a machine;
through the window so goes the world
spreading chaos & death like peanut butter  
oh, we're so lucky it's illegal to be dead in
Americano where everyone is sleeping;

the line is busy right now hurry to manufacture
by the millions ghost makers kidkillers;
****** machines because that's all they do
w/ no purpose or moral; teaching kids
not to **** kids one day no one will **** ever again ***;
where is my angel soul to bring me down;
alight on my face like the holy spirit
while u hold me down; a lot easier to swallow