Saturday, 24 September 2011

Ovaric Son

There are men who’ll crush dead robins under their feet
Till their spindly necks snap
And feel a sense of satisfaction from this task
These men will wake their wives late at night
By pulling their lace and whistling
Pulling a dog by its collar
Slapping it on the head
These men who feel no remorse but their lives
Are what some women see as what men truly are

I have no real malice in me
I get by while getting by
Try not to impede on your life
Try not to tell tales of mine
Unless of humour or conquest
I keep what I feel to myself till I break
Then feel guilt for seeking help

But what kind of man am I?
With no want from love but just of simple comfort
A bus fare easily in my pocket
The sweet flood of toxic sweet smoke
A bed and no ties to this mortal realm
I was carelessly thrown into
No love for my Mother, no sign of my Father
A bastard ovaric son

So should I find my inner sociopath
Be cruel for the sake
Pro-create for the sake
Find a job at a desk for society
Or continue on the path and never know
What type of man I am

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