I Write Poetry
**** their stink the smell of decay
I tend to the old as the wither away
I care for the feeble crippled near death
Getting by with a smile God bless meth
Their coughs their moans and old feeble cries
They all look the same in my bloodshot eyes
Popping their pills to and away I go
Singing show tunes with a sad dreary flow
i hate the old but do love their pils
Scarily happy I tend to their ills
I tend to the old as the wither away
I care for the feeble crippled near death
Getting by with a smile God bless meth
Their coughs their moans and old feeble cries
They all look the same in my bloodshot eyes
Popping their pills to and away I go
Singing show tunes with a sad dreary flow
i hate the old but do love their pils
Scarily happy I tend to their ills
By:
grayday104
Age:
22-25
,
Male
