[NOTE: I know this poem is horrible]
Curiosity killed the cat
that crosses paths
and chases rats across
the street and never
looks before booking,
but not the cautious
and empathic who structures
desires with reason, who
looks both ways, and
I'm no pussy.
From the moment we're born,
every aching crawl, fall, roll, or
step is a pace closer to the tomb
and as I look behind me I'm finding
those lips are shrinking.
I'm going to turn my life around
and head right back to the womb,
taking this forward path marching
right into the cold grave: what the
fuck was I thinking?
If memory serves, this
is not what I ordered,
I want to talk to the
manager and you'd
better not expect a tip.
My cup is half empty, the
sampler caused indigestion,
this is the smoking section and
there's no ashtray, now tell me:
what the hell's up with that shit?
She said, "if you don't like service,
then eat at home, you sacrifice quality
for speed and convience, to spare you
your choice is to spare you damnation."
She said the menu's
not really the meal, but its
tastey if you can get passed
the lamination.
And I look at it like a cat
that crosses paths
and chases rats across
the street and never
looks before booking,
thinking, if life is really
what we make of it, I should
get a better recipe, more ingredients,
and get cooking.
Curiosity killed the cat
that crosses paths
and chases rats across
the street and never
looks before booking,
but not the cautious
and empathic who structures
desires with reason, who
looks both ways, and
I'm no pussy.
From the moment we're born,
every aching crawl, fall, roll, or
step is a pace closer to the tomb
and as I look behind me I'm finding
those lips are shrinking.
I'm going to turn my life around
and head right back to the womb,
taking this forward path marching
right into the cold grave: what the
fuck was I thinking?
If memory serves, this
is not what I ordered,
I want to talk to the
manager and you'd
better not expect a tip.
My cup is half empty, the
sampler caused indigestion,
this is the smoking section and
there's no ashtray, now tell me:
what the hell's up with that shit?
She said, "if you don't like service,
then eat at home, you sacrifice quality
for speed and convience, to spare you
your choice is to spare you damnation."
She said the menu's
not really the meal, but its
tastey if you can get passed
the lamination.
And I look at it like a cat
that crosses paths
and chases rats across
the street and never
looks before booking,
thinking, if life is really
what we make of it, I should
get a better recipe, more ingredients,
and get cooking.
