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Put your money where your mouth says your heart is
because some actions speak louder than others, and words don't speak at all.
The hypocrisy of a poet poeting about how poetry don't mean a thing if it ain't got
that swing Do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya... do ya got any
spare change? I'm in need of some, because my ego's too big for your venti frappuccino
and my heart's twice as cold (when did I get this old).
And I was told, I could be anything when I grew up, and I grew up to look down
So what now? I finally get introspective with a gun in my mouth, with no doubts that
life is for the living and living's for the dead.
Get wed, pop kids, pop pills, have thrills, get killed.
And still, it would've always been this way Like a broken record
Like a broken record Like a broken record
And the only record is of a past of gas, grass, and *** that can't last or get a grasp on
these Sunday, Monday, happy pills, Tuesday, Wednesday,
happy pills The weekend comes with homemade guns and knives
The revolution won't be televised, publicized, or even recognized.
Viva la contraception, because my mind's too old to be late
and my body couldn't take it if I was pregnant with one more thought or ideology.
I'm gonna take you flakes to the great lakes in the winter to get you frosted, because
it would be Grrrrrrreat! If you could all just chill out.
No doubt, you've heard a controversial reversal of my public mandate, which now states,
that in regards to both answers and ***-kickings, if you ask for it, I have to give it to you.
So let me leave the 42 in your honesty box, like a boss, because it's your loss if you
don't get while they getting's good.
They say that if you snooze, you lose. ***.
Eighteen years of 6 o'clock mornings and 3 of all-nighters, and my reward consists of
a persistent lack of resistance to pathogens, and an addiction to empathogens to make me
love who once I loved but love no more.
So get the sleep that's deep after something even deeper,
because money for nothing is a waste of money. I go to Canada for the hookers, I mean the
hockey, I mean the hookers. When I have an *** lasting more than
four hours, I don't call a doctor; I take ***,
because knowing that some 80-year-old dude is popping pills to pop cherries, very well
may delay my next *** for a year and a day.
If you gave everyone your two cents, you'd be out $140 million
So holla' if you plan to pay up, or shut up Because your million dollar idea still doesn't
outweigh the golden silence. And I dispense with these useless idioms,
hoping to keep you safe from safe sex at best because the excess of useless idiots reproducing
isn't any safer. It's the perfect state for Idiocracy.
When this Democanic Republicracy fades, what will take its place? Let Kent State decide,
I'll be along for the ride, because if students get shot at, they must have something sweet
to hide. I bet it's ecstasy. Did you know that it comes
in pill now? I bet they powder five-year-olds to get that much carefree into such a tiny
package. But hey,
cannibalism is easy if you're easy to convince that cannibalism is easy,
believe me, I eat three small children briefly but only on the weekly,
I do it rather cheaply sweatshop labor ain't too meaty,
but sweety, Capitalism don't want none unless they get
mon', hon. This rambling poet won't vilify your feelings,
but *** your ideas Keep your words and conceptions away from
my uncarved block or I'll lock, stock, and barrel my way through
your Christmas carols and nefarious apparel, to appreciate the naked in the here and now,
before they criminalize the norm of the human form.
Every *** is withered and every breast sags before it goes on display to strangers
in nursing homes, who feel you up and tell you that you're dirty, in the name of sponge
baths and sanitation. It'll make you wish you'd *** a little
harder, been a little less self-conscious, and taken the purple pill.
There is no conclusion to the oozing of words from my lips, but I'll leave you with this
quick clip: I've got the 42 in my pants. Get your fill,
but never ever answer what the owls ask. Who? Who?