A fortune teller told me I’d die when I reached nineteen;
I have four years on that fortune teller.
I was a drug addict for four years, no five, but I’m not about that now; I think.
I’m bound by Bizzarro and the Ten Commandments, so I never eat cheese and my pjs say Superman.
My content is bonnet bound, meaning my mind is wrapped in soft cotton, as though to not let escape a single sound.
My pilgrimage is raunchy, caught up in cocks and lobster bisque soup.
Pour me a river and cry me a fountain. My eyes bleed when I see the light.