Oh my, how I fly,
When the putrid soup of my puss filled sock
Spills into your wetted eye.
The sensuous substance,
Oily and abundant,
Lubricates your eyelids which open and shut.
I give you my grease,
Share with you that sacred moisture,
Which allows your mechanic organs
To operate without the corrosion
That leads us all toward decay.
Giving you so much,
Proffering to you my only hot commodity,
I am left with nothing.
I am dry,
my body arid,
Like the solemn deserts of your youth.
My extremities are always open,
Ready to bestow,
Yet the core to which they connect
Is barren.
In this generosity,
I am rendered down
Like the fat of a sperm whale,
Over burning heat to be made into
The energy source that provides you with light.
I have become
That withered childhood which
You have been running from since birth.
I, who am your closest companion,
The soldier who stands readily at your door,
Have become the symbol
Of your treachery.