Lyrics for a Broken Song

I don't care who you are,
The oily skin is my weapon.
It takes three years of gestation
For the little fucker to appear.
It's disgusting and I'm glad,
The filth is charming,
Call me Prince Charming,
Call me your nothing,
Whatever, I'm older now,
And I still can't believe
This disappointment that sits in my lap,
Like my curled up companion
Missing its messy bits
Kissing its kissy lips
Shaking its limbs
A shivering ficus,
No one is like us,
Except everyone else.
So, farewell to arms
And farewell to legs
Farewell to the stuff in between.
I'm not a poet,
So shut the fuck up,
I'm just doing my best
To ruin the art-form,
So go grab a paint brush,
Or hammer a song,
It's all fucking ugly
And there's too much of it too.

Listen to the radio,
The places in between
The cacophany of hit music
And the ridiculous noise making heads.
It sounds like the ocean,
Or better yet, it sounds like the wind
Pushing through the aircraft
When the doors have blown off.