Raise your hand if you were miscarried.
The baby in the backseat wails,
“It’s a scam, it’s all a scam!”
You’re right, kid.
Pop music, like apple sauce, is insufferable
and you can’t stick a candle in your asshole
and call it a birthday cake.
One day, though, you’ll receive the gift of excess.
I fuck with deaths small and large,
whimper my orgasm about town,
had both glitter and blood in my stool.
Neither the hangovers or venereal diseases
are as bad as they say.
Broke jaw, broke ego, just plain broke,
it’s the piss test or relinquish duty, cocaine brain!
Anyways, never trust moderation or the moderator–
you could live to 105 and never cum
but if you show at your funeral,
they’ll thank you for lifting the mood.