Fuckless, my friend.

Don’t bring a dove to a mandatory fight,
don’t stop me in my path to nowhere,
don’t come to me with hugs and prayer;
I can’t blame the dove.

And with that said I will.
Once I reach a point of indignation,
I officially have no fucks to spare.
Don’t talk to me about perception,
unless you’re as low on fucks as me;
I’ll kill the dove to prove you wrong.

Fucks can only nourish,
and if not at least attempt.
I can’t muster the fuck to save my life,
maybe fucks will rain in hell.

I think that I might slay the innocent,
brush them off with but a thought,
briefly acknowledge they overpaid;
but moving on, I’ve more bambi to kill,
Gandhi to starve, Jesus to slap,
etcetera.

And if these deaths replay to mind,
regret is fuck and costs too much,
always out of reach.
Fuck yourself will be concluded.

I respect more the hand that stabs,
and lifts bloody hands for all to see,
than Bozo bouncing back for more,
but nothing makes my piss flow freer
than the planeteer who fights with heart.

I don’t give a fuck; and neither do we.

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