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As he looks into the mirror
Sees his fat shard of sh'eat on your minor fellow
Hath a name drawn out to make his shallow martyrdom
That honing act, to please,
Let it lay on the bleeding edge of the parapet!
Have it all line up: shovel upon, you swine,
Your fecal machine is groveling,
For the days, of the log.
So, be upon that, right as you were!
Bring to me, the Eustace, all your shards of wisdom.
As I, the Andy, shards upon your face.
The fucking stench
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