deepundergroundpoetry.com
Get Off My Plains Of Abraham, You Sick Son Of A bitch
Get Off My Plains Of Abraham, You Sick Son Of A bitch
Don't sucré me if tomorrow comes,
with a dark grammarian in shadows
editing my macabre.
Do re mi fa so, it doesn't pull my strings,
punk'd by Poe and Little Jackdaws.
So fuck you! and "Ring Around the Rosie."
I ain't a doctor, I'm a demented poet.
If I offend, it's because one is disillusioned
and a fool for rot. I ride my own plains of Abraham
and not a satanic jar of Milk Duds. Get a box of
Tide and wash the stains, off your pathetic lies.
Get your transgender Tickle Me Elmo, and chase
the squirrels, in your upside-down little fantasy
world. But don't poo in your nappie and do the
crappie on my dime.
Don't sucré me if tomorrow comes,
with a dark grammarian in shadows
editing my macabre.
Don't sucré me if tomorrow comes,
with a dark grammarian in shadows
editing my macabre.
Do re mi fa so, it doesn't pull my strings,
punk'd by Poe and Little Jackdaws.
So fuck you! and "Ring Around the Rosie."
I ain't a doctor, I'm a demented poet.
If I offend, it's because one is disillusioned
and a fool for rot. I ride my own plains of Abraham
and not a satanic jar of Milk Duds. Get a box of
Tide and wash the stains, off your pathetic lies.
Get your transgender Tickle Me Elmo, and chase
the squirrels, in your upside-down little fantasy
world. But don't poo in your nappie and do the
crappie on my dime.
Don't sucré me if tomorrow comes,
with a dark grammarian in shadows
editing my macabre.
Published Yesterday
Author's Note
Repost from eons ago.
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