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I try to be famous, look where it gets me.
At this point, I’d settle for infamy.
Surpassing the point where danger is needed,
Once it was sweat, but now blood is secreted.
Look!, look here, I’m a starving artist,
A given romance with the moon, yet sun-kiss’d,
Pounding dry and mighty at a concrete floor,
While that little bugger outside keeps crying “Nevermore!”
I dared to dream violets but roses came up--
It’s standard it’s hackneyed it’s worthless shut up.
The lion cons his way into the menagerie,
The demon lays, spawning havoc in his sleep
I here denounce that Devil’s reputation,
Not for mine asylum or heart’s regeneration,
But does he not buy up sprits for the price of carnality?
So take it to give an end of the torturous banality,
But if we all sold away to get riches and wealth,
And sex and power and wisdom and health,
We’d live, the conquerors of all goals.
And what would Satan have, but an excess of souls?
So effort means nothing without that spark--
Of creativity, or at least deference to dark.
Thus far, I’ve been angled at struggle and growth,
God gave me this riddle and I made it an oath.
I’ll learn to live wicked and honoured the same;
You won’t recall I’ve played but fair game.
It’s tragic it’s hopeless it’s morbid but real,
I’m done with your ethics. I’ll go for a deal.