I'll eat your shit,
If it's proper and fit.
I'll not need a schedule.
I'm not plotting nor scheming,
Just cleaning up your dirtiest meaning.
My existence is redundant and residual.
I see your hands,
With all my eyes.
Try to live with out me.
So few wouldn't kill a fly.
I sleep with your best.
Using my bile to medicate your vile.
Mother Teresa's friend.
Again and again.
We clean up your wars,
And slip in your doors.
We love what you hate.
Do you work for us?
Your landfills and dumps.
We see no difference in Kings and Hicks,
But try to snare me in your chopsticks.
Can you be as modest?
Are you better than what set on the curb?
I laugh at you!
Being bugged by me seems so absurd.
I don't misuse.
And I fly.
I could allow myself to think I'm better than you.
Yet I break down Do-Do.
Your culture and being has no metamorphoses.
I start out wriggling than land on your stars.
You think I'm the lowest of the low.
Yet I have accesses, and have you thinking.
Movement undulates my emotion.
Waste is the Lord of the flies.
I break more down than any wreaking ball.
Living within means and the seasons.
How we love the dirty saints.
Angels with dirty faces we land on like a consciences.
We are at of best, at your worst.
We send midwifes to what you kill.
Growing off of murders and trash.
You place knife wounds, we clean out the slash.
Can you consider a searching M.A.S.H.
We search out what you turn away from.
I could fit in your nose.
We are natural musicians,
Built to transpose.
�2003 Daniel J Harris