I fry an egg on my head,
Making sure it's sunny side hot.
My anger is a delicate oven,
My head often a cooking pot.
These days I cook fish as well,
They are very tasty I tell you.
Even if the world runs out of coal,
I've got enough here for a few.
I blow steam from ears,
I'm sort of getting deaf though.
The whole anger thing makes poetry,
A much easier thing to flow.
The world is mean, is what I've seen,
Freeloaders and fraudsters are king.
If you're old fashioned and honest,
They fuck you with their thing.
Too bad, I'm mad, it's sad,
That the world is a decrepit place,
Dancing for the wrong causes,
Wearing always a fake face.
