We blame nature for not nurturing
So, with spikes, we’re torturing
Spikes that suck, poke, pick, spit, and yank
You’re holding one now as you fill up your tank
So mother will be found with a needle in her arm
And we’ll blame her for abandoning us
Us, the squeaky wheel
I, the rusty hinge
As we prepare another syringe
By broKEN
Kenneth is an Evergreen grad. The starving artist is what he has been branded; though he writes from the left, he is definitely right-handed.
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