It's like some overbearing tax on praxis;
how I'm supposed to feel bad for this
when all I've sworn to do
is hold soul like a cold in haunted bronchial tubes.
And my love for you
is harmless as fallen fruit.
'Picked up quick how nice
a jaw cradles a fist -
you made it look like an accident
and no (no)
one finds truth
among tooth that march 'round
my parched mouth
slinging science to the beat of their own gums.
Ooh (ooh)-ahh-la-lies we advertise.
Bastardized pidgin insult,
a lingua franca of
heroes and villains:
Failure.
I don't know it any more than I know success -
it ain't my mess.
I won't baby you, won't wipe your mouth
when the shit-talk stops.
Oh, stop.