Looking at the commanding sun, father lends his mighty wisdom,
Be ready son, to re-edison , it never depends upon how many breaks you face son,
Nothing matters till you keep rising from the gutter but don’t act dumb,
Ain’t such thing as boredom, you were born experimenting random,
Keep heading straight, even if you face gruesome scenes.
For hope, god never asks for ransom,
Why to pray for being a handsome being,
When you are graced with
Glazed Mortise with torquase blaze,
Topaz raze and tortoise brain,
Fists without rage, skin which defies age.
Philosophy, always amused him, was bad at math,
Learned abstract aspect just to invent muse inside him
All the scenes, he sees them in the head during sleep not in his dreams,
Bleak he finds it at peak like morphazine.
So many seasons go untapped,
Behind them reasons, resources go unmapped
He’s engraved raged slave slated in grey clay,
Born to slay the pitiful minimal beautiful maniacs the media makes
But first, he needs a better vision of thirst to prevent further worse,
Often does intervention to rehearse for inhibition of the curse.
If these semantics ain’t symmetric, then why he’s trapped in this
Matrix, enslaved to match the bitching fishing the already phished fancy
Derogative beings, they only arrogantly
Forge neighbour’s lawn green side
That bloomed without sunshine,
Can’t hide the truth so now they ask for favours,
Moment, so clichéd, ditching it invites only omen of various flavours