like reading hyrogliphs.
The meaning I cannot attain for mundane
is the prose of this author,
and though I go round and round and round in my head
I cannot seem to keep the words from squirming
I want to know how and what they say
but today is just not my day
apparently.
Though impared I am and hopeless but not
I sit here sinking, floundering if you may
without a clue as what to do
these words will mean nothing by monring
and impress them I will
with a gauntly farewell
so I can retreat to my den until then
so hopefully I wake
with a great deal of strength
as to tackle this bitch down in twenty
for philosophy it is
and he gave a hip hip
because my dreams always give rise with plenty
of time to spare
so what do I care
if I give up on this piece of shit textbook
written in spirit of boiled cabbage
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