I chew my way through nickles I earn from angry tourists ambivalently tossing percentages into a jar. I've learned that some of the toughest people come from the proletariat. I fear the people that have worked at McDonalds for 20 years. I kneel before the Knights of Mediocrity.

I check my mail and I come back with a fist full of loonies and quarters. Payday. My great big nose reflects back in the copper before I put the coins into my mouth-recepticle. It is barely bearable. It tastes like blood, but is it from the metal or is it the coin cutting my gums? With the sheer yield of my fields was I able to get it down. I wash it down with some OJ.

Of the queerest men and women I have met, most of them were from the same world as I came from (and to which I will inevitably return). The world of the workforce. I am merely ailed by itchy feet and a severe fear of placidity. I work hard. But only if my work is paid in mileage. If every penny spent is a road to anywhere but here.  

A former colleague of mine developed prominent ****** ticks from working as a cashier at a market. The world falls harder on the content, because their yields shield most of the fall. People die both in front of  desks and between steel beams.

Two men sit in silence, playing chess. Suddenly, an argument arises and both parties toss theories of chivalry between one another before one of the men yell,
     "I don't think it's quite that black and white!"

Fought your case, hit the base now rage till you lose your face!
I'm space, you're space, we're all lost to the last drop and there is no reason for the pinball tournament to stop
We'll keep the cogs turnin till the babies stop shaking
I'm outside trying to rattle sheep while hurds are swarming in from sleep
My brothers coping with a lost coin toss and cigarette burns between his toes
All the mean while no one noticed some cats crept in and stole all our gold
I'll fold to hold it
Forgetting every milasecond I kept waisting my ability to forge sworn favors and excellent sense of humor for slackers and loose birds
Floating over broken bones bein stoked makin sure we're lettin the fires burn
Puttin the ashes in a modest recepticle and lay beneath the flowers
Layin in the lye for hours waitin to breakdown the spectacle of lights and superpowers
If I knew the purpose of the game
I probably wouldn't play
If I knew how to make money
I probably wouldn't want it
If knew how to not pop tires
My *** probably stop getting fired
But I'm tired and can't have half a nights rest for every moment is spent trekking on misguided intent with good motives in my head
I help the dead find their place in the middle coaching along singing the song all on the fiddle like that little ****** the riddle you bet your last skittle for a cup of brain sizzle
And I never said this was the best but my arrogance has you suckas restting in heck

Injects she
With Wrath she
Seeings sees of scorn,
He angels through thorns.
Kills he the
Anti, of Christ, aimz
She's certain her ******
True, a pat on the back, phew.
Satan, he has her
Back on the burnt pew.
Don't check the victim
For marks of the saviour;
Stay with me, be with me,
And maybe we'll save her,
The you I dissolved
To be with her maker,
Made Me.
Me, me,
Forsake her,
The you that is her,
The one is betrayed ya,
To turn you against love your,
Er.
Vain ya, vein ya, She,
The sorrow you saved her,
you.
Murderer,
Adama,
Eve'n
Tide.
Vessels of pride,
Alone in seeking,
Find only an empty
ReceptIcle leaking.