We don’t give a damn where or who you scraped out of,
that ain’t honestly your fault no matter how you try to wear it,
only watching what you do right now and from here on though,
so you better realize that your mouth has value and liability.
Let’s simply throw them stupid toys from your childhood away,
give your speech some needed space to roam and grow strong,
or to bring down utter misery atop your unstable figurehead,
leaving that messy tongue of yours to learn dancing by stumbling.
Keep your same location before you’re embarrassed additionally,
hear that hole filling in by your rush of dirt and rock over everything,
supposing whose fault this must be besides obviously yours truly,
bamboo shoots under your pink fangs instead of inside that belly.
Remain embedded forever since it’s always ultimately your decision,
claw at your stones to carve an entirely different set of scenarios,
which one to present just for today when you imagine no witnesses,
and hope that their flashing colored lights will mask your tears.
Gonna pretend these didn’t come from your direction this round,
to hide in our hoarse screams and fragile waving about of pale arms,
praying you’ll somehow sign our dirty palms or crinkled posters,
as if there’s a concern for anything within our jittering broken shells.
I’ll see you decidedly take a dive where no ocean would dare surface,
prominently hang yourself from the sunken ships by costume jewelry,
fisting that ever-thankful raging mike underneath your ripped wetsuit,
crucified on the behalf of little girls and wethers too odd to understand.
Sharwrong's Song 