Ragman

Born in your shit, I can’t enjoy the colors of grace and beauty
I can’t feel anything but this uniform-unfailing sense of nausea…
«Her eyes… so lovely
That you’re askin' yourself how can tears…
Her body… so perfect
That you’re askin' yourself how can shit…»
«Her brain… so empty
That I’m askin' myself how can thoughts…
Her life… so senseless
That I’m askin' myself how boring should be…»
The colors of grace and beauty won’t fit in my picture;
Diping my brush in your shit I’ll paint a life of kicks
Intimidations, self-relegation
I’m a ragman and I love my putrid clothes
Weared out by thousands generations
You’re something worst… corrupted perfection;
The static divinity of perfumed trash