Death creeps slowly on the first born son,
Just like dust is always right behind the sun.
Kids in the backyard chewin' on sticks of gum,
Only one has the keys to the lock on daddy's gun.
I'm bulimic, she said.
I'm anemic, he said.
Keep your tongue and your opinions to yourself,
Cause I can't contrast between the smiles and your frowns.
You could shit upon a vintage porcelain pail,
Don't matter if you do or if you don't, you'll go to hell.