I'm getting old, my story to be told,
My shit smells bad but I can't smell it.
The gods left me alone, no email or phone,
The gullible waste a fortune on religious shit.
There's no god, just the gap that's odd,
That randomness can emerge pretty.
The souls inside my asshole, their goal,
And everybody else's dreams all petty.
But how to tell those, that can't read prose,
Or understand the basic scientific facts.
I too get carried away in imaginary arrays,
And matrices of untried exacts.
Once married and harried, now self carried,
I exist a recluse like a pest.
Sometimes the happiest yesterdays
Lead to the tomorrows that are saddest.
The mind is a weird thing, from it can spring,
Things that defy definitions.
Sorry to bore you all, you may scratch your balls,
Or your ass or fatty hairy buns.
The dreams I see, will blossom when I won't be,
But I annoy the crowd with my rants.
And just when they're praying I'd leave,
I show them reality without any pants.
I'm going off to sleep, in my mind I weep,
If only I could smell my shit some more.
My piss is pale and wicked stale, I fail,
To stay fit like the spring before.
