Upon my bed of thorns I lay
as day turns night
and night to day.
Pondering my genius
though it pains me
to acknowledge greatness.
Oh woe there's no other me!
to share these depths
of poetic misery.
I trod this path of broken glass
in bare feet and a martyr's
destiny in my grasp.
My taskbar rides atop the desktop of life.
My blood runs cold
my memory has just been sold
my angel is a centerfold -
Angel is a Centerfold.
Because I am the best.
Death stalks me like an angry wildebeest
eager to tear and rend,
upon my entrails to feast.
Still I toil upon this earth -
wretched place on which
I was birthed.
I wrestle with death and win,
every waking hour and
long into the dim.
Knowledge comes in tiny morsels
snorted off a supermodel's
washboard torso.
Only Fox Family Channel sustains me.
I gave you my heart,
you said you had one.
I brought you flowers,
you said they were very pretty but you didn't have anything to put them in and they don't really go with the decor in this room so could you please back away so I can close the door you're letting all the heat out.
I sang for you,
you said (to the officer) I was stalking you.
I finally met your parents,
you said I should bury them again before the cemetary pressed charges.
This restraining order is
the albatross around my neck.
You're probably a dyke anyway.