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The Parts

Boredom is not arousing, so I sleep.
Beware the infected crops I reap:
They make many a good man drowsy.
Watch for the ladies in the frowsy
Attire, who look to weasel a few
Greenbacks out of your laundered, new,
And happier self. They scrounge the Earth
For something of a sort of rebirth,
But it is merely a something of sorts—
Hypotheses of unkowns. Tests abort
All too frequently among the frowsies
Because of the untestable lousies
That only want to offer a greenback
Or two. The frowsy is dearly attacked
By too many variables. So I
Steer away—I have my alibis.
I am a prime target, but for what gain?
I would provide only danger and pain
With my infected crop: My money
Is contaminated with the sunny
Side of morbid disease and plays with your
Ignorance. I suppose it fulfills the stored
Feelings' wish to be free of your mind.
The parts of you that are in a bind,
Because the other parts of this great world
Have wondrous, jovial secrets unfurled
Before your very eyes that cannot see:
The parts of existence, unfortunately,
Do not allow you to be happy.
I shan't tell you to commit suicide,
But I will tell you not to go outside.
The parts of pure happiness of some
Good folk are there, and you are not welcome.
Leave, Frowsy, do not fall behind.
Leave, Frowsy, before I change my mind.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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