I dig my nose, I go really close,
To my brain in the digging.
Gold to be found, a plan very sound,
I think I really know what I'm doing.
But people are mean to me, I see,
No real reason why.
Sure I'm slow, my shit doesn't flow,
And something growing on my eye.
But my boogers are big, like a ripe fig,
And like a fig, there are insects in them.
I eat them whole, store in casserole,
They never taste always the same.
This my life, it's full of strife,
A neverending saga of diarrhea.
Who knew that it would be this hard,
To assemble a plastic life from Ikea.
