2 Minutes. Go!

Does it matter what I say? Not if you have paraffin in your ears. Not if you're talking too much to listen. Not if you're chewing and you can't concentrate. Maybe you can't walk and chew gum at the same time either. I am not here to judge you. I am here to shout into the wind, spittle-soaked, smiling.

What does it matter, anyway? Any of it. I am a blood stain washed out with vodka. You are a monument, and the shadow you cast provides shade for the small, woodland animals. I am railing against myself, but you are just in the back row of your own auditorium. 

Life is a sandbag. The rope slipping through drunk fingers. Your spine is about to be compacted.

Look motherfucker, I'm not saying I have the answers you need! I'm talking because people get nervous when I play with my feces. A man's got to do something. Pass me the soapbox and that orange traffic cone. I have a song to sing, and I'm gonna sing it all night long. It goes like this:

Fuck you, pay me.