Pieces of men in piles of ten line the walls of my cell.
Where to begin? A coat made of skin to warm my walk through hell?
A building of bones to hide in alone, and peep at the Toms as they stroll?
The heart? Yes, the heart! God's best art. Save, perhaps, the soul.
I'll take one, I'll pluck it. Toss it in a bucket, and mash it until it cries.
I'll put it in bottles and sell it to models, to heal and revitalize
their oft sagging skin. The business they're in demands beauty perfect.
So they'll purchase my sin, not knowing within float bits of the men I dissect.
But back to the coat-- Wait, no, sails for a boat! Wondrous, flexible skin
So many uses, so many abuses to keep busy the artist within.
A hull made of bone would sink like a stone, so a pontoon of bladders will do.
With my freckly sails I'll glide past the whales in search of a beach with a view.
If I find it, I'll dine on a thigh and some wine. If there's coconut I'll have that as well.
When finally I'm done I'll strip naked and run, free from my human shell.
And happy I'll die knowing that I lived life like no one before
me had lived it, and God will forgive it, and upward to heaven I'll soar.
I want Super Saiyan abilities
Last edited by rebelmidget at Oct 28, 2009,
This was awesome! The flow never had any hiccups of any sort. A rhyme never stayed the same for too long. It had a kind of giddy beat to it, like it was an old irish lymeric or something. Good job.
Quote by turd_ferguson
[0:17] If my parents knew I was part of a group who celebrated christmas by drinking cough syrup they would probably cry

WEATHERER, the greatest band ever.