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

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