You have to understand where I'm coming from the depths of despair disease misfortune lapdance from the devil I shot my mother in the kneecap with a 50 trillion atom bullett It destroyed my life "You selfish foolown" (fool clown) Ghosts still haunt those around me to this day But not me because I am sheltered by my destructive appetite for self-injury I stood alone on my throne Somebody throw me a Bone Drowning in the light of my own Eyelid-like dejected stance I stood corrected, Lance In a gargling trance. He could not find his way home (He, me), being Free Could not find a place to hide in the Tree. Sunk, I did. Falling like a large bowl of cement flakes for Breakfast Leg warmers soaked with destitution Enemies signing me away in their constitution Voting to kill Swarm Swarm Scott will give me five bucks if I use a < in my poem. Ha, that'll show'em. The last part of my brain that disappeared I used to shed tears, I feared. Leered by the promise of thirty-nine No, just the number thirty-nine Not used as a numerical adjectival describer Maria Shriver. DEATH "Come upon my lips like the hips of Women who have spent eight to Ten years riding Horses" That is what I exclaimed. Then, in the blink of a garage door opener, I fell backwards onto a large yet not very Soft pillow made from Alpaca fur. And I bled urine out of my tongue As a nearby felt puppet did sung Of how if my soul were a criminal in the Ol' West or perhaps modern day Texas it would be Hanged.