Look at you sitting there…
Like some Stuart king on your wooden  bench with velvet cushions, Staring down at us as if we come fished out of the sewers.
Tell us my lord which of our parts would you love to cut out first,
Which of us brings you the highest discomfort?
If for one sin, just the one that burdens our shoulders you cringe and rub your fat nose, what would you of those that burden our souls?
See you holier-than-thou prick, you self entitled refined boar, listen and give heed,
I came here crawling from my mother in earnest shock and a fine swat upon my ass my first pain.
If I knew what I know now, I would have crawled back in the cozy moist of my former abode.
Better kill her and I than suffer the numb in my soul.
So you say you will refine us, and by the fire renew us.
Do your worst!
Oh, there! You cringe your nose again!
It’s a brilliant world for us, and a terror for you – you have to endure us. But do my lord, o’er these royal fires hold us on stakes.
Turn us as your fat cooks do pigs, and do not forget the the apples put in our mouths.
You are e’er so lovely my lord,
My world is beautiful for your brilliance that my sight must suffer.
Go on then, the stakes are here.


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