Ribmeat Of The Family Tree

Chas. Dickens

10-8-05

My brain is
my reproductive organ of choice
but I'm only left
with the choice to let it go.
I've used all others
the best I can
to replicate me safely, and honestly.
The written word is left to honor me.
An ill-timed excuse to excuse my excuses
is all I've left to leave by and
since it doesn't fill ears melodically
the way it should
then I'll just go back to work
soullessly for a soulless company,
doing a soulless job
that benefits everyone but me.
I'll go to bed, drunk and broke,
knowing my reproduction lived
scattered on pages
and be thankful, I suppose,
knowing I'm (most likely)
not in a gutter.