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Mine eyelids weigh heavy, a blanket of sores
Like pockets pressed closed, pockmarked sockets of pores
Mine muscles weep weary from pacing this cage
Mine eardrums ring shrill to remind me my age
Mine nose stings of pollen spores sporting small swords
Mine feet, callous-carved, ache from fighting floorboards
Mine hair's parting plastered in nine oily chunks
Mine shirt sends a scent that could charm sixty skunks
Mine legs lug like iron behind my corpse ghost
Mine breath bathes my tongue with the taste of tar toast
Mine heart, hard and beat, barely pumps out its pay
Mine lungs rent umbrellas to push flesh away
Mine bladder enbalmed, bloating full at its seems
Is the only one here who has wind left for screams
I'm beat, and I'm battered, I'm bitten, half-dead
I'm bent, and I'm bitter, fugoff, I'm goin ta bed.


from Lord Mongrel is Dying, released May 17, 1994



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