The waves in my brain froth
Stains from an unnamed broth
Interesting things to leave untamed; abstain the bane and taper off
Like the joy it brings a moth with haste into the flame and the same relationship to claim with paper and elation of the cloth
They all will be engulfed; it’s the tincture for the cough
Or when your sphincter’s feeling rough and you’re feeling pretty lost; what a patron to the frost, hatred freely tossed with a face that’s falling off
All but flailing; hailing from the tree with no way to be the boss
Sailing in the storm and most likely slacking off
Hugging something warm and might be jacking off
Moving like a worm; sleeping in the loft, only working at a scoff
Lurking in the moss, sitting; smiling at the moth
Getting pissed on and then pissing off like a high school reunion, but only inviting five jocks and a Goth
With arms real strong from holding wood so long and throwing lots of rocks into the trough
We can rock real soft until the pock pops off; hang on the bar and drink punch until the cock comes off
I have a hunch that you haven’t gone too far eating lunch and fucking off like a straw boss; yawn like a bunch of fawn and lucky, yard born sloth
