You just DON’T get me 

The more your throw at me,

the more I believe my view of the whirled

is as accurately 

conceived, even when spun weird,

as ever a view could run.

The more you drop shit over me,

like rubbish on some clever 

tip of intelligent 

tongues, grossly wronged,

the more you are 

gonged to 

think I will change.

I will remain evermore 

the man of grand Y, until the

day I 

dye my life the 

colour of 

the only happy place

that could 

mean I could see

a life – and be! – with some fab degree 

of s-u-b-s-t-a-n-t-i-a-l

meaning.

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