Shut the Door.

by cannabisara

Pink Floyd jammies.
No panties.
I’ll ignore this problem and start another.
Shut the door, slam!
Damn. Scram. Cram it up your ass and bam!
I’m Emeril and I’ll make a gourmet meal out of your face,
You beam disgrace upon the ‘precious’ things I take.
Or erase.
We make. We toy. We fuck. We destroy.
We fuck again. We create. We fuck that up and masturbate.
Shut the door, slam!
I’m a photographer, because I can take a pic with my cam!
Like a hologram. You’re flimflam
With the brain of a clam
And a target weight of one whole gram.
Let’s make a deal, I’ll be me and you pretend to be real;
That’s a steal.
Let us not forget the human race and the bleak condition in which we face.
We go. We mow. We tow. We crow.
Oh this dumb slow pace in this quick race.
Race to the only thing you know for sure,
Your death in this case.
An ignorance of reality as you stuff your head inside that plasma box,
Develop wheels of inept ideals that women need plastic shields.
Fuck that. Fuck you. You are a rat.
And as I tip my hat to the previous stat,
Shut the door, slam!
Yet again you are wrong.
The guys all want a bigger shlong.
The hippies chant “Why can’t we all just get along?
You know what I do?
I take another hit from my bong
Tapping my fingers to the beat-
It’s always the same song.
Slam! Shut the door.
One more thing to settle the score:
You’re a whore,
You’re a bore,
Slam! I’ll shut the fucking door
Because you always want more.

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