Maybe I'm shunning myself
But don't give me grief
Coming and spewing from your hurts and your pains
But lash out and assign the blame
Your true attitude is only masked with perfume
Tell me what hole I've fallen into
But I don't like to waste my sarcasm
So don't give me grief
I wish I could tell you how good of you it is
Oh how nice of you to look down at me
So don't give me grief,
You've got nothing else better to do
Because I know it's right out of your gut
From you, from them, quite possibly myself
History is a pit
who drove themselves as through they were earthquakes
who had their portraits done alongside great, blue lakes
who blotted out the formation of estuaries
by savvy seductive little whores
the death of solemn forests
whores uproar drowns out
the presence of the sea
by the dusty, sullen peoples
who make you forget the splitting apart of plateaus
and residual mountains
by the sick to their stomachs
by orangutans in full-dress uniform
inhabited by pale looking guys
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