Jackanapes and smoke buttons

Why I spit? Well that's simple. Take a long fucking look At your logic, and method, And an obsessive compulsive need for security blankets. I watched you for days. Gossip to friends about Necessitous heartache. As I purged my bleeding Stomach and vomited in The Jacuzzi from the bad Catering sticking to my Fingers and throat. But you, you kept up the grand facade and orated to the deserving. About fast food and hand lotions, and your quick trips to Bermuda. Your trough fed Japanese gardener. I saw you then as you always were, But different, better, a blue bleeder. A fine diner, And the toast of Oxford. And then… Then a great day came when you let me kiss your pinky ring, and play with your Lionel train set in the basement. You let me blow your whistle, and push the smoke button. I was so fucking happy I cried. Now look at you. Look at me. Wrecked, On the bridge Between paper Mountains, and a pair of your sisters pomp pomes. Look at you. So fucking Cocksure. Making me. Make myself. Sick of us.