SO (ain’t) my roll in life

I guess, then, it’s clear:

on this planet and rock

it ain’t my damn roll 

to be happy and glad;

a stone I am, instead, which

bleeds on occasions:

more than I ever

now care to contemplate.

And if your roll

and if your thang

and if you thing

and bling 

and sang

is to simply transmit 

the pain of a man,

and never to glory 

in the pleasures of a land,

mebbe what 

I have to do now, right now,

right when,

right then, 

and so,

is cow – after all! – the pride 

I once showed;

the ambition I once did how.

There’s nothing too mad,

nothing after all,

about being this sad 

all the time.

As long as you know

it’ll be the future 

rhyme and reason 

you were put on the globe

and made entirely whole,

and never 

that treasonable offence 

which had you 

locked away bad: 

locked away behind digital

wall –

(that evil beyond even 


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