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.