It's not here, it's in the ether. I'm not queer, and he's not either. I'm no pawn, but I ain't no Caesar. I'm Peter the fucking Pumpkin Eater.
I don't know what that means, it's for you to figure out. Probably something about my mom. Or God... Or Trout...
And that huffing is bluffing, all little pig stuffing. See, nitrous ... don't ... count! And well, yeah, a few mistakes here and there. I'm only human. Humans err...
This is the state of the way things are. I'll take you for a ride, but we won't go far. I'll take you out for dinner, but we'll skip the bar. We'll sing instead, to fog-soaked stars.
It's not a question of rhyme or reason. You can't kill me 'cause I'm not in season. And I do pride myself on some lightweight treason; I'll fight anything 'everyone' agrees on.
I am, in some ways, the court reporter. Only they got an alphabet much shorter. So, you should have listened, 'cause I know you heard her; she told you: I'm the fucking shit disturber.
*(That, of course, would be assuming that I am me and not an 'auto-blogger' set up by the CIA to see who comes to a blog to learn about sad childhoods, profanity, fishing, love, and subversion. And the gays. But don't worry, the CIA would never tell you they were up in this shit because that would be stupid... Or would it?)