Brain dead, half empty, half filled with shit;
Half baked by wit like Creamcheese on the
Shores of plagiarism, Saying
The plague is upon us by electro rhythm
As sour as one end of a battery,
Licked with a bronze tongue
Through the torrent of unjustly illegal temptations
Freely accessible to the likelier,
It is, you know, the times are rough;
A raggedy tear down the jeans no longer cuts it
In the eye of the assuming beholder,
Through weary pupils glistening with sweat,
Aching for the credulous ''stay with me, guys'',
Hanging over a virtually authentic roulette,
Not getting it but laughing hard - heartedly,
Functioning, bug free baggers of What life? They're
Staring down morals and a principle thread,
To possibly knit and abandon absently,
Half filled with shit and half empty and brain dead.

                                 

                                                           
       'Niner, Jul.7