Ambrosia
__________
I vomit up food, I'm no good,
I'm a piece of shit clear to see.
I can't get along, my dick not long,
Forsooth something wrong with me.
For instance my face, a wrinkly surface,
Can't make a fair and svelte miss to look.
And it doesn't help, that my pubic hair,
Has acrimonious lice in every nook.
So I should die, I should buy a tie,
And hang myself from it.
These and other not-goodly thoughts,
Verily make me feel like shit.
Not my fault, my shit like malt,
And flowing as a flow very shitty.
Can't conform to rules, or ass gaping tools,
I hide from the overconfident city.
A bong can't be wrong says the throng,
Mostly nitwits of dunning-kruger type.
Hotly chasing ideas dead in hollow heads,
Asswipes tooting their sweaty bagpipe.
But this life is shit, shit I know it,
I don't know, always in a low mood.
The imaginary god I pray says,
"Suvrotica sell your shit as food.
Unite the fucks disparate and disquieting,
Belligerent those bags of bengali bile.
Tell them you're a reincarnate or shit,
A prophet with an anal sphincter smile."
That's an idea though, the shit flow,
Does look like chocolate some.
I had to pull a highfalutin out,
Cadbury stuck in the rectum.
Pasted on the wall praised by many,
Some said twas the second cumming.
It was an uninterrupted log, I sob,
Just look at the size of that thing.
Delivered to here, gas from my rear,
A holy hopeless fanatic fart I am.
God through me, ambrosia can sell,
Then I can pay to fuck a foreign ma'am.
Yes I won't brood, I'll sell shit as food,
Hallelujah the goodly god is good.
The clouds fart a confirmation, so nice, thrice,
Am on Amazon, selling chocolate food.
Totally cool if my stool,
Makes to every household's "I want it."
Surely then my piss vomit and fart,
Will get recommended by AI or shit.
