I fall, I fall, I fall with my balls,
They're heavier than at least my face.
I can't seem to stick to the side that's upright,
I always fall from gravity's grace.
I think I'll hit a ready-made grave this time,
What else is there to see?
The world has a color of pallid sorrow,
I'll probably drive the introspection silly.
It's really sad, that I should end up mad,
I really ought to lecture my neurons straight.
But the strategy of talk, doesn't really work,
The disease is a genetic trait.
At least I leave no sign in genes,
The bullshit stops with me.
When I die, people will jostle and vie,
Who gets to shit on my dead body.
I'll probably rot in vain, a calcutta drain,
Will be where I'll end up doggedly dead.
The worms in the feces will do the deed,
My words in living memory, easily erased.
