Oh horrid idol of adhesive song,
Why dost thine smirking visage haunt my thoughts?
What dry rhyme can'st thy parched tongue not yet quench?
Each word swallows flesh like a jagged knife.
Caustic, the musk of death shadows your scent;
A bitter cloud of the latest Ralph Lorne.
Ineffable Jackass of clever tone.
As pages of depth become your lyrics
and all that is good begins to fade out,
the icy air consumes lurid screeches
fear dissolves into pensive nothingness.