Burning down below
The itch of self-destruction
Decades without compunction
The interminable rabid pony show
Better as a consecrated religious
Thoughts were more prestigious
Far less desperate and superstitious
Less fraught with consternation
Less submersion in self-flagellation
Less gasping with desperation
The wound the Dutch ripped open
Blasted heat from an emotional oven
But the wound festered, and the scars have healed
The shedding of trappings of identity has been sealed
The next time they rant they’ll just kiss off
At the brandishing of a rhetorical Kalashnikov
Because at this point it’s just so hard to care
It’s nauseatingly obvious what they think when they stare
There won’t be any vows or rules
There won’t be any clothing or title
None of that is important or vital
They’re just Satan’s little goblin helper fools
It just gives them something to misunderstand
As they throw rotten tomatoes at the pilgrim in the land
They’ll figure out how to hate on the old poet
Who comes slinging a rhyme and a cipher and knows it
The profane poet called himself a visionary
He also said in the same song that vision is scary
As usual, he was more than right
There is no reason to balk at their hatred and fright
Everyone knows where the devil’s sock puppets’ hostility will come from
A whole man just beckons them over and tells them to let it come
The whole stupid crazy event just makes the soul stronger
No longer a headless chicken trying to last longer
They thought they were clever creating isolation with a virus
But of course, they woke a free spirit like Icarus
Who flew at the sun with the grace of a walrus
And whose melted wings splashed him down at the holy terminus
He’ll have an effect like a planet-sized ejection of gas from Uranus