The Philosophies Of Generations

Tied to property and gone stinky

as an old couch under the excesses of nonchalance,

I am 40.

The little cocksucker is 8, the old one 78,

the careless premise and conclusion of Humanity.

streaming comfortably through the ages of unreason,

What do they care how anything smells?

It’s not their show I’m running,

not their souls concerned with furniture.

I’m the one that stinks,

striving in vain for their easy insight:

Piss on it.