My bones have mud where marrow should be
And all the food that I eat rots
And all my automatic
Functions like mathematics
Haunt me in the summer when I faint
I love abyss
the great chasm in which
functions seen tarnished
the soul is waxed and varnished -
like a gleaming screaming shiny good luck wish
Sitting on the stand with a mirror in my hand
am I polished, well refined?
I can't tell from where I stand
I better ask a teacher.
Oh, those desciples of Job
They'll tell me true
I used to wish that I was older
Bigger stronger, harder colder,
But now they split me into quarters
Holding (up above me) order
And telling me not to worry until senior year
Ahh, and then there's not conforming
Each young individual independent dressed like
the next kid conforming to individuality.
Oh, these rebels of society.
No society for them
Not outside their lunch table
But they won't let you in.