I live in a boot; life is moot.
There's neither reason nor rhyme.
Just today my fart was a spray,
Of shit that's more like slime.
My sense of art, I express in farts,
Well, sometimes I get carried away.
"Gone is the time to live without crime."
What I was painting today
Imagine my situation now.
I'm inside a bucket of poop.
Worms nibbling at my sanity,
And enjoying a diarrhea soup.
It's scarcely credible to me,
that I'd ever meet a decent soul.
The last person I thought was a god was
was, in fact, a lice controller asshole.
I don't have any hair to speak of.
But he pulled lice from my nose.
Think how mad it made me,
When he said I was gross,
I'm alright; I just might,
Adjust with my own shit.
I really don't seem to even like
an asshole if I can smell it.
Holy the hole of this shoe's sole,
I sing hymns that are fit.
It must have really stretched her cunt,
to produce a shoe with a head in it.
Today I'm pissy, no real missy,
passed by this shoe to grope.
If you're wondering, I grope with my eyes.
One day I'll have hands, I hope.
