So galled looking in the mirror,
This paper thin man,
Worthless trash in the breeze,
His reflection drawing nearer,
Dead eyes speak deadpan,
Stomach drop to my knees.
Inescapable this hell is,
Within this cage of flesh,
Cannot change the way it's made,
Wallowing in the tar pits,
The same ideas made fresh,
It is strange the way it's played.
Repeat repeat repeat again,
Regurgitate the better men.
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