The crack of a bullet
Refracted by crumbling buildings
Rob the grave
By not doing anything
Please
Do you ever lose track
Of who you are pleading to?
I know exactly who my
Opinions are aimed at
They are aimed at the losers
Those on their high horse
Those in the morgue
It is a sermon
I want the infidels
And the converted to hear me
Both alike
You all need to hear these words
Sometimes I think that
Intelligence has a maximum occupancy
High-maintenance low-life
Workshops of sweatshop owners
A school to teach you to be
Narrow-minded
You can slip into something
That looks nicer
But make sure it’s made of
Children’s fingers
Make sure something had to die
Because, you know,
You need it for the cold winter
Bony shivers
Send me splinters
To circumnavigate
This hemisphere
My world
Not to exceed 10 people
Welcome
First come, first serve
Self-serve gas station
Fill up on me
And while you’re at it
Buy me a pack for the trip
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