Conversationalist

As you may know, I have no deed to ingress,
For I dispose the sublimity that reads a
Face that indulges in itself within
A basket of thorns that leaves you dead
To the market of industry.

Therefore, I do not need your autograph
Because it is a stupid little placebo
Waiting to
Rip my heart out with a fork.

I am a pig
Wanting to get ammo.

I whack your head with my staff
And leave you
With a concussion for the Doc
to look at with his stick.

Then I get arrested anyway
And I have no
Intention of pleading guilty for you
When you are at fault for
Your actions,
And something you will see
Your misery on the carousel
You had built yourself.