Perfect poetry and profound prose.
Overused, not amused, and it's rearing it's chubby upturned nose.
Frailty follows and leaves them bruised.
Crustacious creatures that we all think we are,
But abuse yelled from a passing car.
Convinced to commit, the unclean armpit,
That we all are.

You use too many words to tell a simple story,
You're exciting all the bored, and the exciting becomes boring.

Nothing hurts worse than writing the second verse,
To that song you never liked in the first place.
What a waste.
But you write it anyway,
Who knows maybe someone will like it someday.

You use too many words to tell a simple story,
You're exciting all the bored, and the exciting becomes boring.
Don't you hate it when you try to write a lament,
And it turns into a love song.
Your life is the lament,
And you're left with sorrow and disscontent.

And then before you know it everyone you loved is gone.
Before you fucking know it everyone you ever loved is gone.

It's the emperor's, it's the emperor's new song.

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