Happy Stuff
Drink a bottle of bleach
To clean your filthy speech,
Your disgusting tongue and
The fouling words you preach.
What poison is at hand
To cleanse your rank demands,
Your sour milk sympathy—
Putrescence at command?
The stench is thick, frothy—
A foam of apathy
Above the cracked wave guise
Of something so healthy.
Your wasteland thought implies
Theories which surmise,
Impress a compromise
With what truth does comprise.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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