Every fact that I can gather
I won't lather with a stick
Of butter just to force it
Down my gullet for you all
I don't need flesh I've got a spirit
Which is fed by what it has
By the bones of memories
Rotting in their graves
And if I can sweat enough
To projectile vomit those
Maybe I'll find some space for
Something yet to come
But til that day I'll starve
The brain stem into thinking
It has never had a meal
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