Our land lord loves us, and hates us all,
and I can relate. More so in terms of love, and then some in turn of hate.

There's no debate, I'm making all of this
up. Forsaken demigods lighting fires beneath deaths wings, beneath where they sleep.

Counting sheep, around the clock, sleeping with face in hands, tolerating the devil.

I'm on your time and your on mine,
we are both oxymorons, but we are
less than that.

Our land lord won't fix anything, all
they want is to party. All I dream of is partying, but I've chosen destiny.

I am no enemy to the state, but it makes me sad that I have to be.

Consider me a rapidly progressing
rhapsody. Say it again, simply for kicks.
A modern day black comedy;

quirky, yet outrageously unfunny.
Half cocked imagination, yet it flows as if—

and then a brick wall.
Congested, bearing accredited banter, purified by sombre light, dry heat,

and flexible scampering.
There is a sheet, but projections derail.
The cloth is frail, and the machine

needs some other words. Tell your GP you are fine.
—
Inconsiderate, and inconsiderably
jerky, or a cool man in a messed up headspace.

Pack a suitcase, he packed nuts,
disregarding counting stock when
grocery shopping.

Freedom of love and hatred, kiss and tell.
The hell with all that cat ****, not ****** but getting close

The rest is up for the taking.