Sold for scraps, the rats; Intelligence is a sad myth of the elderly statesman. Could we be so lucky? Inheriting the shit and failure of our former selves.

What a wonderful invenition, a love affair with death, you and your stinking lack of morals and judgement. Your values are like water, changing with the moon and the winds.

Urget sense of impending doom; heart-wrenching white-knuckled terror, floodgates open and you cry like a baby, fetal position your new favorite pose.

Could we leave self-loathing and disparity out of this little equation? It has only succeeded in marring the current situation, along with all your hopes and dreams.

I write of failure, death, & destruction, while you sing pleasant melodies exploring sex, alcohol, and exploiting your mother. Are you not ashamed? (only time will tell; your lies revealed, mingle with your half-truths, your words are all jumbled)

Disgruntled. You leave me disgruntled, lost, upset, destroyed, petrified, putrid, waste

Offered position of power, turned it dow. Reasons: save my ass from retribution + dissatisfaction & the slander entailed with public scrutiny. But you can have it all if you'd like.

© J. Bernhard

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