Pythagorean hymns out-crazy my old god,
The one I think about beyond all thought.
Her filthy feet have plod, have plod, have plod
Through bowls of cinnamon and angel snot.
I raise this monument against authority.
A piece of pilfered placenta in my jeans
To aliment the wrath of my minority
Until the trumpets wake the zombie teens.
I know the promises I break for you,
What chaos and resentment will ensue:
My angry opposite, your swollen eyes.
The mirror stills with breathing like a lake
Although the desert will not fill with sighs.
I built this mystery when I baked your cake.