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Artsy Fartsy
We're toying with syllables.
Just to have something
To call ours.
An art.
A fart.
The essence of word.
The ghost of a turd.
Indulge yourself in a drink.
An inebriating metaphor
For the thinking man.
And we will all
Hold your hand
For your art.
Your shame.
Your pain well-recited.
Your verse uninvited.
Collided, we have
With a monster called
Muse.
And it's difficult
Not to emerge
Unscathed
By his violent ruse
To produce
Our art.
Our pathos.
Our cleansing of soul.
Our wiping of a-hole.
Yeah it's true
We're on a crash course
With our hunger to feed
On the need to exude
All our passions.
The arts.
The lies.
Those indulgent remarks.
Those hedonist lines.
