Artsy Fartsy

We're toying with syllables.

Just to have something

To call ours.

An art.

A fart.

The essence of word.

The ghost of a turd.

Indulge yourself in a drink.

An inebriating metaphor

For the thinking man.

And we will all

Hold your hand

For your art.

Your shame.

Your pain well-recited.

Your verse uninvited.

Collided, we have

With a monster called


And it's difficult

Not to emerge


By his violent ruse

To produce

Our art.

Our pathos.

Our cleansing of soul.

Our wiping of a-hole.

Yeah it's true

We're on a crash course

With our hunger to feed

On the need to exude

All our passions.

The arts.

The lies.

Those indulgent remarks.

Those hedonist lines.

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