Run-of-the-Mill Angst
Why do I write, sometimes I ponder why
Should they all care about the things I do
Like waking up and hiring prostitutes,
As if I broke the ground with some new work
That they should read my plays and masturbate
“How great Rye is!” but sadly not the case
For only idiots seem to get my thoughts
So stuck in warrior pose with five inch heels
