Evolution

Prophet of my profits, put your legs in the stirrups force me out of you, shrieking dripping of drug, reeking immaculately dressed adulterous, childish a little worse for wear, a bastard of metaphor. Heir of my errs, cast a neurotic prosthesis atop the saddle trample all bards, those pleading laden with morose and fleeting lousy with expression hopeful, hopeless all my eggs in one basket, all breathless from orphans. President ill of precedent, flirt your hand to the holster load the chamber, saluting empty the casings, alluding rife with self-assurance bootlicking, apple-polishing what goes around comes around what shall us servile accept?