Killed a spider in my bathtub, I did. Yep. That’s all there
was to it. Whack. Dead. Some hanky-panky motherfucker wants to let it live. I don’t
let things live. It ain’t my style. You see. Yep. You sure know a lot about
nothing. You’re swimming in books waterlogged with lies. You can’t
believe everything you read. You can’t believe anything. Don’t ever make plans,
no goals, never get your hopes up, don’t wish for things. Acceptance is the
key, say it with me, I am poor, no one loves me, and that is just how it is.
Get yourself a trade, join a union, buy a trailer and lot of land and call it good. Or just go to prison and read more books, that would make you happy. See no more failure. I am a success at being what I am. Nothing special. Stress
free. Eat damn it. Ride the bike every day. A constitutional, some old man once
told me, is a daily regimen of activity. Control is an illusion. There is no such thing. Bear mace in my pocket at all times.
And stop
writing that jive-ass poetry.
It will get you nowhere fast.
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