He always used to say,
Life's a piece of shit - and then you die.
I guess he was just an irksome fly
lingering around the scent
of putrescence.
Drawn to the darkly side of reality,
lingering there in some diseased banality.
I always used to say,
'Life's like a pair of tits:
when faced with the squeeze
you can eat it up or split.'
But, in reality, life is what you make it.
I'll only be in flight if I put my wings on right;
you can call experience fertiliser,
or you can call it shite.
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