Prig

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Dedicated to a true prig
(who is it, who is it)

You think you stand so tall in the mast
But most of us see through your volto mask
To a little man limping in shoes sized too big
with foul smells in your sole of an alley rat prig

You try to play strings but your hands are tied
Hinged to a wall you can never climb
The graffiti you secrete but an up-skirted hack
To compensate for bigger pieces you lack

You proclaim your words are a new light
But soon they’ll burn all your fingers outright
In a blazing inferno rearing your crash
And that mast you claim will crumble to ash

The people you fool will one day see
And you’ll reap what you sow to great reverie
I write this for you in a most simple verse
So you understand what will be your curse

 

Words, opinion, and photo are my own

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