You’re having sex, not making love,
over that browning grassy field of yours,
lying with steel boots prominently parting,
down to an encouraged slobbering grin.
I say that I’m so damn funny,
stop me if you’ve heard this one,
ten thousand and two times, son,
as a small protest under consideration,
where I’ll finally reluctantly decide,
exactly before I play it again today twice,
congratulations, except there’s no sale,
but I truly don’t care if you’re a buyer,
of mine, obviously, since that’s who,
we’re always talking about here, right?
Filthy lover spread like butter across my burnt bread,
dipping with coffee prior to entering my sleepy head,
to chase the constant hatred for this world deep inside,
along unworthy links and eggs thoroughly grease-fried,
wondering who’s got the guts to properly call my bluff,
among reams of other people’s lowest content and fluff,
telling y’all a story about yourselves without listed credit,
drenched in numbing offenses from a positive hypocrite.
Laughing with pinky comically embedded in that saucy corner,
no evils once declared within these rich confidences abroad,
charity fed upon for fuel to thrive and systematically decimate,
pointing to that symbolic sunset ushering in our tearless last breath.
Sharwrong's Song 